THE WRATH OF JERRY

©2025 VALERIOS

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PROLOGUE

THE GREAT VENTING

People detest necromancers. They call us disgusting, repulsive, ungodly. They are wrong about those, but they are right to fear us.

Necromancers and mundanes cannot coexist. We are simply too different. To us, people are materials, a nascent state of zombies, as farm animals are to farmers. To them, we are predators. They are right to fear us; for we are enemies, but it takes many of them to kill one of us, and only one of us to kill many of them.

Some believe we can overcome our differences. That is a false notion. The wolf cannot live with sheep, not only because he hungers for their flesh, but because they fear him for what he is. Against mundanes, we must not attempt coexistence. That would only give them opportunities to scheme against us, to betray us at our lowest. In a battle of the mind, they are more, and they can emerge victorious.

No, we necromancers must come in the night, falling upon them like hungry wolves on fat lambs. We shall tame their souls and raise their bodies as ours. Before the night is through, we must have made them part of our strength, until we are too great to be slain by their paltry forces.

That is the way of necromancy.

- From the excerpts of Ozborne the Cursed

Jerry—short for Jeremiah—came to in the middle of a forest clearing. He was confused, at first. Why was he here? Where was here?

Then, it came to him.

Oh.

He had run away. Away from the land that bred and raised him, away from the parents and few friends he’d made over the course of twenty-five years. He didn’t want to leave, but he had to, for it was the only way to truly live.

Magic was a gift possessed by few. It was the power to impose your will upon the world and achieve extraordinary feats, setting one apart from the masses. These people were called wizards, and they were revered by all.

To those who wielded it, magic came as naturally as breathing; it was an undeniable part of themselves. For this reason, all wizards discovered their talent early, and none shied away from the responsibility it brought.

But like most gifts, magic was also a curse to some. Not all kinds of magic were revered and praised by the Three Kingdoms. Necromancy, in particular, was considered taboo.

The Wizard Tower of Erland taught that, due to the nature of their powers, necromancers were a blight upon the land. They hungered and devoured like locusts, stripping the ground of life and brightness, leaving only a dead wasteland in their wake. They were living disasters who refused to contain themselves because they were invariably evil. Like other wizards, they could not stop themselves from practicing their powers.

In the Three Kingdoms, these were common knowledge.

Jerry thought he disagreed.

It was on his eleventh birthday that the dark magic appeared inside him, flooding and all-encompassing. He had not known, then. Bringing a hand down, a praying mantis had died. Raising the same hand, it stood again, the process natural and easy. It obeyed his commands, dancing at his childish, excited laughter.

When he’d proudly shown his mother, she’d freaked out. He’d gotten viciously beaten. The mantis had been thrown into the fire, burned in dark smoke, and Jerry himself was grounded for a month. He did not know, then, what it was that he had done, only that it was bad, and he shouldn’t ever do it again.

No matter how much he wanted to.

Later, he’d learned about necromancy and the danger it posed. It was evil. Jerry was a good guy. He did not want to be evil.

He bottled the desire up. The magic grew and bubbled inside him, but he kept it down. Besides his parents, nobody else knew.

However, holding it in was painful. It filled his mind. Distracted him. A presence at the edge of his consciousness that constantly begged for attention and release. It was like having a third arm and keeping it tied up behind his back for years, like resisting an addiction whose fervor refused to die down.

It was difficult, and it almost drove Jerry crazy. At all times, his mind was simply not there. He had trouble talking with people. Like all children, he dreamt of becoming a soldier and fighting on the Damn Wall, but it was hopeless. Even after he’d followed in his father’s footsteps and become a shoemaker, he sucked at it; focusing was impossible, and he failed more often than not.

People thought he was stupid. Eventually, even his parents did.

Yet, Jerry had persevered. Necromancy was his own problem—he did not wish to burden the world with it.

Fifteen years passed in a semi-conscious blur, Jerry’s muddled mind only remembering things in flashes. Until one day, a fateful April day, he just couldn’t take it anymore.

He ran away. He ran into the forest, as far as he could, unleashing his power freely. It burst with the strength of a compressed flood; animals died and rose again, trees rotted, flowers wilted, bones long-dead stumbled out of the ground.

He was surrounded by death and the beauty of necromancy, the magic that was him, the part of him he’d kept locked up for fifteen long years. The release was so exhilarating, so ecstatic that, after a while, he’d fainted.

And now, he woke up, feeling alive for the first time in many, many years. His mind was finally working again, and the constant headache was nowhere to be seen. The magic was content—for now. Strangely, unlike what he’d read, he had full control of his magic; he was still a good guy. The books had lied.

Fifteen years wasted.

Jerry smiled sadly. He knew, at this moment, that he could never return to his suppressed state. He couldn’t go through it again. He could not return to the village either, as his forest excursion would be noticed soon.

Strangely, he didn’t mind too much. Being whole again was much more important.

Jerry stood, taking a deep breath and relishing in the combined scent of death and life. The life that, stubbornly, had already begun to creep back into this darkened area. He breathed again, content in finally being free. He knew nothing, but he cared not; life was good.

Then, he looked behind him. A veritable army of undead animals were there, dozens of them, all staring at him with their black, hateful eyes. Boars, foxes, squirrels, moles, birds, insects… They were waiting. Forever waiting.

With a gentle, sad smile, Jerry waved a hand, and their lifeless bodies all slumped to the ground. He would create new undead soon, but these animals were tainted by the hatred he’d felt when raising them—they should just rest. Unlike most necromancers, he was a good guy, and his undead should be good, too.

And so, Jerry turned his back to the peaceful corpses and took off, forever abandoning the land of his anguish. It was time to find a new home. He had no destination or plan in mind but knew that, as in any worthy endeavor…

The first step was to start walking.

1

FORREST JERRY

After running away from home, Jerry wandered the forests, feeling more alive than ever before. For the first time in fifteen years, he was fully conscious, and that was an amazing feeling.

For water, he drank from streams. For food, he dined on animals. After his initial outburst, he avoided killing altogether and only reanimated the corpses he found as guardians and scouts. Some, he ate as well; he was immune to disease, apparently. He understood this. Magic whispered it to him.

One thing he discovered was that when not refusing his magic, he had full control over it. Not killing was easy, and controlling his reanimated guardians was easy as well. Their little group of undeath was peaceful, even if thoroughly intimidating.

This brought a lot of things into perspective; why was necromancy evil?

It is disgusting, sure, he thought, watching a half-rotten boar struggle to walk, but why evil? I mean, I can control them just fine. The Curse is evil, yes, but that’s the fault of a single necromancer, not everyone! So why is necromancy evil?

Jerry did not know. What he did know was that he enjoyed this newfound freedom. He also discovered the joy of experimenting.

When the stumbling boar collapsed, Jerry realized he could reanimate just its skeleton. Watching the bones slash their way out of the meat was gruesome, but traveling without the rotting flesh was far more aesthetically pleasing, and more convenient as well. After all, even if parts of the boar had been chewed off or rotted away, the skeleton was pretty much in pristine condition. After washing in a nearby stream, it was even pleasant to look at.

Following this discovery, all of Jerry’s undead companions became skeletons. It was just a much cleaner approach. Flesh was messy.

However, his experiments did not end there. The undead were fat blobs of magic in his foggy magical perception; there had to be more than that. Jerry thought for hours, pondering on what made the undead tick—or the living, as a matter of fact. With his nascent sense of magic, he probed his creations, looking for the something he could not see. He de-animated and reanimated a boar repeatedly until he was exhausted, observing each change with as much attentiveness as he could muster. It yielded nothing, but he pressed on.

He repeated this process day after day, becoming so engrossed he was practically obsessed. Most necromancers would choose to simply use their gift without delving into the specifics. Not Jerry. He wanted to know and was determined to ram his head against it until he found out.

As the weeks passed, his magical perception eventually became clearer. He could now vaguely sense that the undead weren’t just blobs of magic; they were bodies held together by magical tethers, or bonds, which crisscrossed inside them and connected each part of their body to something central—the soul?

Apparently, Jerry’s magic could create these bonds instinctively, allowing him to raise undead without understanding what he was doing. As he grew sharper, as he began to sense the bonds connecting each limb to the soul, he became able to alter the effects of his magic.

Thus, he experimented. He raised undead missing certain bonds, resulting in parts of their body remaining dead and immobile. He created more bonds toward a certain limb compared to others, leading to increased control over that limb, though the increase was fairly insignificant.

However, this manual process granted him better control overall, allowing him to create bonds even where there weren’t supposed to be any. This led to Jerry’s first great discovery.

He could combine the bones of different animals to form a completely new skeleton!

By creating a fixed magic bond between two different bones, he stick them together without having to graft anything. This would theoretically allow for much greater diversity in his creations, though he failed spectacularly at first.

Turns out, forming a functioning skeleton was more difficult than it seemed. There were so many bits and pieces to work with, and there also needed to be load balancing, weight distribution, enough density to allow movement, and a fluid transition of larger to smaller bones.

Overall, it was a lot of work, but Jerry relished in the task. Having been semi-conscious for fifteen years, he was used to time flowing effortlessly. Months passed in the blink of an eye. In this period, Jerry lived as a forest hermit, hidden away deep in the Axel Ridge. Humans, he had seen none, nor did he mind the solitude.

In fact, his mood rose steadily, and every day, he found himself transitioning from morose to jovial.

His first success eventually came. One cloudy afternoon, he created a massive boar by combining two individual boar skeletons. He took a step back, inspected his creation for the tenth time, and poured magic into it. The behemoth shook, then stood.

Jerry threw his hands in the air, screaming with excitement, “It’s alive!”

The boar oinked, and thus, Jerry’s first true companion, the double-boar, was born.

Boars were very common in the Axel Ridge, making them his prime subject of experimentation. Larger predators were also present in the mountain forests, though they usually shat bricks at the sight of his skeletons. Killing them might be out of the question, but Jerry wasn’t going to say no to their involuntary boar offerings. What was he, rude?

After the massive double-boar came a new skeleton; a combination of fox and, well, boar. Boars were really good at running straight ahead and ramming into stuff and not much else—though this verb was mildly insulting to boars. When they had to turn around, they were as nimble as ships. To combat that weakness, Jerry added some fox leg bones to the boar’s skeleton. A skeleton was much lighter than its fleshy counterpart, and the extra maneuverability could be exhibited with relative stability.

The only drawback was that fox bones were too fragile to support a boar’s weight, and so were eventually worn down and broken.

With zombie boars, which he also reluctantly experimented with, the same combination failed. The boar simply tumbled to the side, too heavy to handle the sharp turn. Perhaps nature had its reasons for turning them into meaty arrows.

By far the most interesting experiment was adding a tusk to a fox skeleton. It seemed counterintuitive, because what was the fox supposed to do with a tusk it could barely even lift? Though it did have a surprising application.

The fox skeleton climbed trees and simply fell on its prey tusk-first. As simple and un-foxlike as this may be, it was surprisingly effective, and Jerry found it funny every time the fox got itself lodged atop a skeletal boar that ran around in fright—he had his creations experiment on each other instead of torturing live animals.

Of course, Jerry wasn’t specifically trying to create deadly minions, per se, as he had no intention of killing anything. It was just that animals fought a lot, and battle was the only testbed he’d found for his creations.

That, and extra protection was always a plus.

Sometime in early August, Jerry exited his shoddy wooden shack and took a look around. The forest was bright green, but a chilly breeze reached him through the leaves. The breeze was uncharacteristic for this time of the year. At that moment, he realized it was time to go.

Therefore, with the double-boar and a normal fox skeleton as companions, he once again set off.

Days passed, though, by this point, Jerry was numb to the passage of time. He simply walked. One night, he idly wondered where exactly he was headed.

Anywhere, basically, he answered himself, used to speaking alone. Or maybe I could find a different place to settle down for a while. Humans would be nice.

A pang of desire burned through his heart at the thought. He didn’t really miss his family. It was just, having some human companionship from time to time would be nice.

Months spent in peacefulness made Jerry an optimistic and decisive man. Therefore, from the moment the desire sprung forth, it took all of two seconds for him to settle on a decision.

All right, then. I will go find a village that doesn’t mind a necromancer too much and settle close by. If the first village doesn’t want me, I’ll go to the next. If they don’t want me either, I will try the third village. Eventually, it will work out.

It did not work out. For weeks and months, Jerry journeyed, passing through lands unknown and living off the earth. While necromancy wasn’t outlawed, it was extremely frowned upon, and all the villages he ran into practically chased him away with torches and pitchforks.

After the second month of aimless wandering and the ninth village, Jerry was beginning to doubt his plan’s eventual success. The weather was growing colder, and he would soon have to find a place to settle down. Winter was coming, and skeletons, for all their bony might, could not protect him from the cold.

One more village, he promised himself. If they refuse me, I will find some abandoned building or cave and spend the winter there—preferably with a lot of wood around. That would be ideal.

With his two skeletal animals in tow, Jerry paced forth, aimlessly following the forest paths. The double-boar skeleton—he called it Boboar—and the skeletal fox—he called it Foxy—still remained in pristine condition, with any and all animals wetting their hind legs at the sight of the walking skeletons.

Some more nights passed, and the days were getting shorter. Generally speaking, it was a peaceful little walk. Until it wasn’t.

2

HEALTHY UNLIFE

Holly’s eyes darted left and right in panic. This was supposed to be a simple herb gathering trip. She stepped back and found herself cornered against a tree, her beautiful blue dress wrinkling against the bark. Around her, two men grinned, while a third simply watched on.

She screamed.

“Hey now, girl,” one of them said as he leaned in, his voice rough and overly honeyed. He wore a green tunic with a leaf insignia on his chest, the symbol of the Greenskin bandits, and his breath stank.

“Don’t be afraid.” He smiled, showcasing his couple of missing teeth. “We won’t harm you; just take you for a walk.”

Another man chuckled, while the third bandit simply scoffed. “Come on,” he said, clearly uncomfortable. “Just grab her and get this over with.”

“You shut your trap, Tom,” the first bandit snapped back. “I’m going to do this my fucking way.”

“Then you can also keep watch your fucking way.”

“You already agreed to do this. Be a man!”

“I was ordered to, not agreed.” Tom crossed his arms. “Also, your definitions are way off.”

“Big words don’t make you smart,” the third bandit argued. “Just do your damn job and keep watch for us!”

Holly’s mind was hazy with fear, barely following their words. They were standing too close. If she so much as reached out, she could easily touch their leather vests. Her breath quickened. She was panicking. They would kidnap her, then kill her and use her head to decorate their treehouses. Or worse.

“I want to leave,” she muttered weakly, looking down and clutching her herb basket. “Please…”

Their grins widened.

“What’s your name, beauty?” the leader asked. “You’re our guest now, so let’s get to know each other.”

His companion laughed, while Holly’s world closed in around her. These men were going to take her away forever. Nobody could rescue her, not even her father or Murdock. She was doomed. The forest span in her eyes.

“Excuse me.”

A polite voice interrupted the bandits’ laughter. Ten steps behind them, a skinny, unkempt man walked out of the bushes. His clothes were tattered, his short beard scraggly, and his dark brown eyes tired. Unexpectedly, his goatskin shoes appeared brand new, and above all else, this man sported the world’s most well-intended smile.

He couldn’t be more than thirty years of age.

“Who are you?” the bandit leader barked.

“I’m Jerry,” the man replied nonchalantly, “and I would like you to step away from that young lady. She seems uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable?” another bandit asked, his mouth forming into a smirk. “Are you trying to say we smell, punk?”

The man took a whiff. He considered it. “A little bit, yes.”

The two rowdy bandits looked at each other. A much better prey than this fool awaited right behind them, weak, frozen, and terrified out of her mind. Once they took her back to the base, the leader would reward them plenty.

“Come here, brat. I will show you the afterlife,” one of the men said, drawing his sword. The more reluctant bandit sighed and followed suit, while the leader remained behind to hold the girl.

“Well…” Jerry scratched his head. “I apologize. This is going to hurt a little.”

“What are you⁠—”

The bushes behind Jerry exploded. Two creatures rushed out, each scarier than the other. The bandits froze. Holly, already frozen, could not avert her sight. Her mind registered these two monsters as a boar and a fox, but they were not. They resembled those animals but were white, made entirely of bones. Her knees gave way, meeting the ground as her mouth opened in a silent gasp.

Before her trembling eyes, the two things obliterated the bandits. The boar fell on them like a runaway carriage, goring one—Tom—with its tusks and throwing the next on the ground before furiously stomping on his chest. The man’s insides splattered out in a shower of gore and blood.

The bandits screamed, and so did Holly. She had no idea whose screams she was hearing.

The third and final man was tossed aside by a massive boar head, crashing against a tree. He tried to scramble away, only for the other monstrous form to fall on him. It was a maelstrom of bones, fury, and death, and the man screamed as his face was cut apart, uselessly flailing his weapon around. Two jaws clamped shut around his neck, prying out the windpipe.

Blood gushed out like a river, drenching Holly’s face. She screamed again. Behind everything, the skinny, unkempt man watched calmly, a sad glint in his eyes. When the slaughter was over, he regarded the devastation and sighed before turning to her. Holly thought she would go insane.

“Hi, I’m Jerry,” he said, giving her a wide smile. “I know how this looks, but I’m actually a pretty good guy!”

A few moments earlier…

Jerry lounged on a fallen log, taking his usual midday rest. The breeze was pleasant, and the sun shone through the foliage.

He had no idea where he was, but that was par for the course. He didn’t need to know. A village would either come up or it wouldn’t, and six months in the forest had taught him nothing if not patience.

An oink came from a patch of nearby bushes. Jerry smiled warmly. Spending half a year in the forest had its perks.

The branches parted and a monstrous form walked out. It resembled a boar but was massive, thick, and white, made entirely of bones—the result of two boar skeletons grafted together into an extra-burly version.

“Hello, Boboar,” he said. “Had a good trip?”

The skeletal boar replied with a happy oink, affectionately—and carefully—rubbing against Jerry’s thigh. He patted its skull. This creature, which could bring nightmares to the bravest of children, was one of Jerry’s loving pets.

The rustling of leaves betrayed another arrival. A skeletal fox dropped from above, carrying a dead squirrel in its jaws.

“Foxy! Good girl!” Jerry laughed.

At his noises of approval, Boboar remembered something. Running back into the bushes, it quickly reappeared with a few green-capped mushrooms in its mouth, then dropped them at Jerry’s feet and excitedly wagged its tail. Jerry took a look. Though necromancy made him immune to most diseases, these were definitely not edible.

He retained his smile all the same.

“Good work, Boboar.” He rubbed its skull. “You’re the best double-boar I have ever met!”

The boar oinked happily, swerving around itself once. Foxy, ever the calm one, simply curled up beside its prey.

“Come on.” Jerry stood up, dusting off his weather-worn green tunic. “Let’s start a fire.”

Boboar excitedly ran into the woods, while Foxy grabbed the squirrel and skinned it—she didn’t have claws, being a skeleton, but her bones were just as sharp. At the same time, Jerry set to work preparing the firepit.

A cold breeze ruffled his woolen coat. He looked at the sky. Winter was coming. If he didn’t find a village to live in soon, or at least an abandoned house, or even a nice cave, he would probably freeze to death. He shrugged. Not much he could do about that before dinner.

And, besides, necromancy had its way of de-glorifying death.

Will the snow rise higher than Foxy’s head? If I’m going to freeze to death, maybe we can play in the snow beforehand.

With the harsh sound of two stones rubbing against each other, the pine needles he’d gathered burst into flames, scorching the small logs arced above them. Soon, they were aflame.

Jerry angled the dead squirrel over the fire, draping it on a piece of wood using a rock for support. He grinned at their teamwork; Boboar had gathered firewood, Foxy had caught and prepared the meal, while Jerry had gathered tinder and lit the fire.

“We make a great team,” he told them, and the two undead cried out in joy at his approval.

Another cry cut through the woods, decidedly not made in joy. It sounded like a woman’s scream before it sharply turned into silence. Jerry’s head whipped around.

“What was that?” he said, already standing. While he hadn’t interacted much with humans in the previous months, he could still recognize the sound of someone in trouble. If that was so, maybe he could help. He liked helping. He also liked making a good impression, which would help convince that girl’s village to let him stay.

He was, after all, a good guy.

Or maybe the girl had just tripped. Who knew.

“Boboar, Foxy, with me,” Jerry said, snuffing out the fire. “Let’s go check it out.”

The two skeletal animals stomped and rushed through the woods, their lightweight forms enhancing their speed. Jerry ran after them, quickly getting left behind and feeling a bit ridiculous.

Running on foot wasn’t very becoming of a necromancer, but it wasn’t like he could ride Boboar. The sharp spines were inconvenient. Maybe he could craft a saddle. Or find a horse corpse and create a mighty steed.

Huh, he wondered idly. Why didn’t I think of that before?

But, for now, he simply ran. There was someone to save, and with a little bit of luck, maybe they would even let Jerry into their village!

3

FIRST IMPRESSIONS MATTER

The bandits lay dead. The two hellish monsters awaited while their master calmly inspected the devastation.

Holly, already with her ass on the ground, backpedaled furiously. It dirtied her beautiful blue dress, but she didn’t have the presence of mind to deal with that at the moment. A far more pressing question loomed in her mind.

What the hell just happened?

“Y-you…” she said, raising a trembling finger. “You’re a necromancer!”

“I am,” the man replied, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His face was a picture of tranquility.

If he stood by himself, he might have seemed good-natured; naive, even. Now, he was surrounded by corpses, blood, and gore, with two skeletal monsters by his side. Their empty eyes stared through her soul, ready to devour her, or whatever it was that skeletons did to humans.

Her eyes darted to the dead bandits. That’s what skeletons did to humans. She was going to die, that much was certain. Things had just gone from bad to worse. What was a necromancer doing here? And why did he seem so damn cheerful!

Holly was no hero. She was just a terrified village girl. She didn’t want to die. Her hands clasped the stalk of wood nettle hanging from her chest, hoping it would protect her, as the mayor said.

“Please don’t kill me,” she muttered, trembling to her soul.

“Sure,” replied the humanoid incarnation of evil. “Why would I?”

“Why?” Holly gawked. This was so ridiculous that her tongue moved by itself, “Because you’re evil!”

He blinked innocently, then smiled. “No, I’m not.”

“But you’re a necromancer!”

“Not all necromancers are evil.” The devil smiled again, pointing at himself. “Like me!”

Holly’s panicked mind screamed at her to stall. Maybe Murdock or her father would arrive in time. “What about them?” she asked, pointing at the two skeletal monsters. “These boney abominations!”

The boar-looking thing snorted, cold air escaping its nostrils, and Holly shrieked as she crawled backward again. Her back hit another tree, and she cursed; did this forest need to have so many damn trees?

“Hey now, that wasn’t very polite,” the necromancer said, sounding… concerned? He bent down, patting the skull of the dreadful boar-like-thing. “These are no abominations, they are just unusual. This is Boboar, and the smaller one is Foxy. Say hi, guys.”

The fox thing made a soft cry, while the boar thing oinked and charged at her. Holly screamed, shutting her eyes.

“Don’t be afraid.” The evil wizard laughed. “He just wants to play!”

Holly was expecting agony and death, but neither came. “Ah?” Eventually, she opened her eyes just a bit. The boar thing’s terrifying form was close, leaning forward as if to smell her dress. It then hopped a circle around her—and the tree she was backed against—before releasing a happy oink.

“What?” Holly muttered. Her entire body was numb, and her mind hazy, completely unable to follow this chain of events. “This is impossible…” I must have died already. I’m dreaming.”

“I told you, it’s okay. I’m a good guy, and these two are my friends. We aren’t going to harm you. What’s your name?”

“Holly…” she whispered, eyes glazed over. Today was simply too much.

“Very nice to meet you, Holly.”

“Are you really not going to kill me?”

“Of course I’m not going to kill you,” Jerry replied, stretching a hand to help her up. She looked at it, shivered, then stood by herself. The necromancer shrugged.

“But… you’re a necromancer,” she said, dusting herself off. By the side, the two skeletal animals awaited, but now she could function. Somewhat. “Aren’t necromancers supposed to kill people?”

“Some do, but I’m a good necromancer. I don’t kill people for no reason.”

“But then you can’t use their bodies.”

“That’s okay. Besides,” he gestured at the dead bandits, “look at how conveniently these three showed up.”

She gave him the side-eye. “You’re weird.”

“I get that a lot.” He smiled, tapping his temple. “Something in here’s not right, but that’s okay. Not everyone has to be normal. I like me.”

Holly blinked. “Are you crazy?”

“I don’t think so, but I could be. It’s hard to tell.”

“How can it be hard?” she asked. Despair gave way to a rush of adrenaline, easily mistaken for excitement, even by herself. “Do you see things that don’t exist? Do you hear voices?”

The boar thing bumped on her leg, and she yelped.

“None of those.” Jerry shook his head. “It’s just, you know… I spent six months in solitude, and before that, I’d gone fifteen years straight with a massive headache. Maybe some part of my brain went bad? The way my mind works now feels odd, as if something in there is wrong, but I don’t mind.”

“Oh,” Holly said, her mind jittery. She was confused. Necromancers weren’t supposed to be like this. She looked at her feet, where the monster called Boboar lay on the ground, unperturbed by the blood and gore on its tusks.

Wait, why am I not affected by the blood? Is it the shock? Am I in shock?

She looked at the dead bodies. One had been stomped through the chest, blood, skin, and entrails spreading out of the man’s body like tree roots. Deep down, some part of her screamed and retched at the sight—but it felt strangely distant, as if there was a different Holly trapped inside her, struggling to escape while this Holly, the one outside, was so, so cold.

In fact, her entire body was so frozen it’d gone numb.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, then fainted on the spot.

Jerry regarded the unmoving corpses sprawled across the forest floor. He was honestly excited; it was the first time he had human bodies to experiment with.

Idly, he wondered whether these young men were simply joking with Holly before he unleashed an oversized skeletal boar at them. He really hoped that wasn’t the case. He had heard screams, and there were wicked shortswords on the ground.

Perhaps the girl could explain. She looked about sixteen, with blonde hair and an oval, freckled face, while a now-dirty, frilly blue dress covered her body. She also wore rough wooden shoes, called clogs, quite to Jerry’s glee; her village might lack a proper shoemaker.

She also wore a string around her neck, from which hung a piece of wood nettle. This plant supposedly repelled undead, though Jerry had discovered no such inclination of them. It was just a widespread superstition. Some people always carried these itchy plants around, just in case the Damn Wall fell, as if they wouldn’t have time to grab a handful from the forest then. It was kind of stupid, really, though understandable, as it gave people the illusion of protection, an imaginary shield against the terror.

The wood nettle did mark the girl as prejudiced against necromancers.

Next to her, an herb-filled basket lay on the ground, its contents spilling out next to the soiled ends of her dress. There was no reason to wear such a garment in the forest, but it also wasn’t Jerry’s business.

However, just as he was done answering her questions and about to ask his own, the girl had simply slumped over, falling to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Of course, he thought. Resist the shock when it’s your turn but give in when it’s mine.

Scoffing, he looked around. Trees everywhere. No village to be seen. Jerry scratched his head, wondering what he was supposed to do with an unconscious girl. He couldn’t just guess where her village was, so he’d just have to wait until she woke up—and patiently enjoy his lunch in the meantime. After all, if she was in a hurry, she shouldn’t have fainted.

He grabbed Holly and placed her on Boboar’s back, careful not to injure her. “Let’s go, guys. That squirrel won’t eat itself.”

Right then, the bushes behind Jerry shook.

“STOP!” came a voice, and Jerry looked over warily. A middle-aged man leaped out of the bushes with surprising agility. He was skinny and tall, wearing a pair of fine, pointy blue shoes and loose red robes covering his body. Strict lines framed his eyes, while his face was a sharp kind of aged. Most notably, the man had a wicked mustache, thin and stretching from cheek to cheek. Jerry thought it was pretty cool.

He was also unarmed, vaporizing Jerry’s wariness.

The middle-aged man took in Jerry and his undead. “Get away from her, you squanderer of gifts!” he shouted with a judgmental frown. The necromancer, on the other hand, found the older man’s reaction cute; what would he do, scold him? That was, until sparks appeared on the man’s fingers.

“Wait!” Jerry raised his hands. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

Fire flew at him.

4

IMPROMPTU COURT

A torrent of fire flew from the man’s hands onto Jerry’s body. The scalding heat made him dash backward in fear. At the same time, two more torrents jumped at the skeletons but failed to even char their bones. They both reacted instantaneously.

With an angry bellow, Boboar threw himself at the man, who jumped to the side with surprising agility. Unable to stop, the double-boar crashed against a tree, shaking the entire trunk and roots underneath.

Foxy also jumped at the wizard. While she wasn’t nearly as strong as Boboar, she was far nimbler. She fell on him swiftly, with claws and jaws ready to tear flesh from bone, and he received a deep gash on his cheek as he slapped her away.

Both animals got ready to pounce again, and the wizard’s hands shone red like embers.

“Wait!” shouted Jerry, patting the final flames off his tunic. He wasn’t injured. Boboar and Foxy had stopped the wizard’s spell before the heat mounted. “Just wait! This is a misunderstanding!”

The two skeletons froze, absolutely loyal. The wizard also halted.

“Misunderstanding? There is nothing to misunderstand here. What did you do to her, you foul being?” he shouted, blood flowing from the nasty wound on his cheek.

“I saved her!” Jerry cried out, keeping his distance. “These men were trying to harm her. I saved her. Stay your hand!”

The wizard frowned, glancing at the three corpses, and then at the girl who lay face-down on the ground—Boboar had dropped her to attack.

“How do I know you’re not lying?” he asked cautiously, not lowering his hands. “Holly’s unconscious.”

“Not much I can do about that, unless you’re really, really in a rush.”

The wizard’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a necromancer.”

“I am.”

“And you dare show yourself in these woods? Do not bring your blight upon my land!”

“Hey now, I’m not bringing any blight. I just showered three days ago, and I’ll have you know I take good care of myself despite living in the forest.” He raised his chin, then sighed. “I’m just a wanderer looking for a home. Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask; can I stay in your village?”

He could have been more diplomatic about it, but Jerry had seen such prejudice before. The faster the other shoe dropped, the better.

“Hah!” The wizard laughed, a coarse, bitter sound. “A freak like you? Not in a thousand years. You will come to the village, but you’ll be my prisoner until Holly wakes up to tell us the truth. Understand?”

Jerry shrugged. This man seemed a bit disagreeable, but that was okay; he would just do as he was told and leave after his innocence was verified.

And then, I’m off to find shelter for the winter. After that, we’ll see.

“Sure. I’m Jerry, by the way. If I’m innocent, are you sure I can’t stay in your village? I’m actually a pretty good guy, and also a shoemaker.”

“Only over my dead body.” The wizard snorted derisively.

Your dead body wouldn’t mind, Jerry thought, but chose not to speak.

“Follow me, then,” spoke the wizard, slinging the unconscious girl over his shoulder, “and have your… minions… stay a hundred paces behind. I don’t want them anywhere near me.”

“They are called Boboar and Foxy,” Jerry helpfully pointed out, “but alright. Go on ahead. What’s your name, by the way?”

The man snorted and walked away. Jerry followed with a sigh. If the entire village was as rude as this guy, it was going to be a long day.

It was a mountain village through and through. There were a couple dozen cobblestone and wood houses arrayed in loose circles around a wide, empty space. The entire settlement was built on rocky ground at a mostly flat part of the mountainside, and it was as small as could be. The only notable feature was a shallow stream a few hundred paces to the side.

Jerry didn’t particularly care. A home was a home, and a village was a village. No—On second thought, size mattered; smaller was better. More people would mean more troublemakers, as necromancers were traditionally disliked.

Boboar and Foxy waited outside the village. As Jerry and the wizard approached, the sun was setting, and smoke was already rising from several stone chimneys. The smell of dead animals hung faintly in the air, along with a vague hint of the tangy smell of drying skin. Unlike most, these people had the prudence to place the tannery outside the village.

Jerry also noticed several pens, each housing a few tens of livestock—sheep and goats, mostly, with the occasional cow munching on tufts of grass. There were few people out and about, all gawking in Jerry and the wizard’s direction.

As they walked into the village square, the wizard shouted, “Mayor Ashman! Please, come to the square. We need your judgment!”

Several windows opened, and many heads peeked through. Jerry’s appearance as an unknown, unkempt man raised many brows.

Not the best first impression, probably, he thought, yet didn’t pay them any particular mind. They weren’t going to let him stay anyway.

Many eyes were also drawn to the wound on the wizard’s cheek, courtesy of Foxy. He’d put some herbs over it to stop the bleeding, leaving him with a leaf-and-blood-smeared face, and many gasps were heard as people noticed. He was clearly pissed about that. If he disliked necromancers before, he now hated Jerry with a passion.

Under everyone’s gazes, the wizard suddenly seemed to remember something. He retrieved a red feather from his breast pocket and stuck it in a special hole in his robes, near the shoulder. The feather stood proudly, as if it had always been there.

“Cheater,” Jerry mumbled under his breath.

In the Three Kingdoms, all wizards were obligated by law to carry a colored feather signifying their status and the magic school they belonged to. They had to wear it in all public appearances and in a clearly visible spot. Jerry didn’t know why, but he assumed they simply wanted to avoid unnecessary conflict, or maybe distinguish themselves from the common riffraff of the world. Wizards were known for their arrogance.

Of course, necromancers weren’t officially recognized as wizards, not since the Red Week, so they had no obligation to wear fancy feathers.

Had this guy worn his feather in the forest, as he was supposed to, Jerry might have been more on guard… but, what’s done is done.

A few people exited their houses and headed for the empty space in the center of the village. The wizard had called it a square, but that was a very generous title, as was calling the leader of such a small place mayor.

“HOLLY!” a mighty shout came from the side as a large man rushed at them.

He was bulky and dark-skinned—unlike everyone else—wearing tanned leather hides as well as a set of leather boots that looked well-made but had clearly seen their fair share of winters. Muscles bulged out of his chest and arms. His head was covered in rich dark hair, while a short but bushy beard adorned his face, making his overall visage resemble the king of all lumberjacks.

That impression was immediately shattered by the bow and quiver hanging from his back, as well as the long knife strapped to his waist.

The large man reached the wizard in only a few steps, plucking Holly off with more force than strictly necessary. The wizard stepped back. After making sure she breathed properly and wasn’t bleeding, his hard eyes stared over.

“Murdock,” he said. “What happened?”

“Derek.” The wizard snorted, pointing back at Jerry. “Ask him.”

Jerry waved. “Hello. I’m Jerry.”

“What did you do to my daughter, stranger?”

“She was surrounded by three bandits. I saved her.”

Derek turned to the wizard. “Is that true, Murdock? You didn’t bring him in as a savior.”

“He’s a necromancer,” the wizard spat out, drawing a wave of whispers from the villagers. Even Derek flinched. “I found him surrounded by corpses and undead, with Holly’s body in his grasp. He claims he saved her, as if we would believe him. He’s a necromancer. You all know what that means. I suggest we eliminate him, right here and now.”

“Hmm.” Derek narrowed his eyes. “Were those corpses of bandits?”

“Yes,” Murdock admitted, “but so what? Even if he’s telling the truth, he’s a necromancer here to kill us all. Who’s to say he wouldn’t kidnap Holly and do unspeakable things after saving her? I was just lucky to catch him in the act and lure him all the way here.”

Jerry looked at the villagers surrounding him; they seemed scared, confused, and potentially aggressive.

“This is a misunderstanding,” he said.

“Your birth was a misunderstanding,” retorted Murdock.

Jerry frowned and crossed his arms. “Okay, that was witty but not very nice.”

“Are you asking me to kill my daughter’s savior?” Derek frowned, his deep voice demanding the attention of the crowd.

“Think, Derek,” said Murdock, tapping his forehead. “Necromancers are evil incarnate. I lured him all the way here. If we let him escape, he might kill hundreds of people, including all of us!”

“Evil people do not save daughters.” Derek turned to Jerry. “Are you really a necromancer?”

“I am.” Jerry nodded. “In my defense, I’m also a pretty good guy.”

Derek chuckled before regarding the wizard. When he spoke, his words were final.

“He saved my daughter. I am not killing him.”

“But he⁠—”

“Wait!” a voice came from the side as a plump man desperately pushed his way through the crowd. He stopped there, panting, with his hands on his knees. “Wait, just wait! You can’t start the hearing without me!”

“Mayor.” The two men nodded slightly.

“Just… give me a moment,” the mayor got out between heavy breaths. His head was bald and his clothing rich, with red, fluffy leather draped over his shoulders. Kind lines marred his face, while his eyes were bright and soft. He seemed like a pleasant next-door man, certainly not a mayor or any sort of authority figure.

So, this is the village mayor, Jerry mused. He probably stopped to get dressed before coming. Then again, a village cannot have a mayor. If he wants to keep the title, maybe he has to dress up.

“Mayor!” Murdock exclaimed, as if he’d found salvation. He pointed at Jerry. “He’s a necromancer! We must kill him.”

“A necromancer!” The mayor’s mouth turned into an oval.

“He saved my daughter,” Derek retorted, still holding Holly’s unconscious body. “He’s a benefactor.”

“But he’s a necromancer!” Murdock hissed out.

“I don’t give a shit!”

The two men glared at each other; Murdock’s expression displayed a clear disdain for the larger man, while Derek grew more enraged by the wizard’s arrogance. His eyes were stony, his mouth clenched, and his entire being oozed straightforward stubbornness. This man clearly had the diplomatic grace of a particularly hot-blooded bull.

Murdock finally looked away. He snorted as he regarded Jerry. “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you on the spot, heathen. You should be ashamed. Magic is a heavy gift, and necromancers clearly buckle under its weight.”

“Leave him alone,” growled Derek. “I’m sick of your bullshit. This man saved Holly.”

“And then she mysteriously fell unconscious before this stranger tried to drag her away. For the love of Manna, Derek, use that empty rattle ball you have for a head. Do you really think a necromancer would help others? We live in fear because of them!”

Murdock glared at Jerry, and embers flickered in his hands. Clearly, he was running out of patience. Derek narrowed his eyes.

“If you harm him, I will harm you.”

Murdock’s embers flickered out. “You’re just a mundane. How dare you threaten me?”

“Mundane, you say. That’s exactly the kind of shit that makes me wanna bash your head in, you wizard supremacist cunt.”

They glared at each other again.

Jerry already liked Derek. He seemed honest and simple, like Jerry himself. Murdock, on the other hand, was arrogant and close-minded. An unpleasant man, despite his talents.

“By Manna! Silence, both of you,” ordered the mayor, trying to stop any escalation. Both men glared at him. He shrunk back.

“I mean,” he continued a bit more softly, “let’s think about it first. We shouldn’t kill people lightly, right?”

“What?” The wizard’s eyes widened in anger. “He’s a necromancer! His kind brought us the Curse, the Damn Wall, the Red Week!”

“So what? Necromancy is not illegal,” replied Derek.

“It’s detestable.”

“But not illegal.”

“Let’s just let the man speak,” the mayor said, and Jerry’s heart fluttered. Finally, someone wasn’t ignoring him!

“Yes?” he asked politely.

“Tell us about yourself, Mr.…” His voice trailed. Derek looked on amusedly, while Murdock seemed to be stewing in his robes.

“Jerry.”

“My name is Ashman. In the name of Manna, could you please tell us… everything, basically. Who are you?”

Jerry smiled.

“I’m Jerry. A friendly, wandering necromancer. I spent the last few months in the forest, but now I’m searching for a home. I’m also a shoemaker, if your village happens to lack one, and I really am a good guy. The books are lying about necromancers, trust me. I would know.”

Murdock spat on the ground. “Good necromancers and flying whales. He’s full of lies.”

Thankfully, the mayor ignored him. “Shoemaker?” He raised a brow, still sweating from Murdock’s and Derek’s combined pressure. “I didn’t know necromancers could have such mundane professions.”

“Sure we can. I wasn’t always a necromancer. By the way, if you decide not to fight me, can I stay here? You know, since I saved that girl.”

The crowd burst into indignant whispers.

For the second time in a day, Jerry had just thrown the question out there. Perhaps this wasn’t the best time to bring it up, but months of solitude had made Jerry forget how tiresome human interactions could be. He was pretty sure they would refuse him anyway, so he just wanted to get it over with and leave. This surprise court against him was slightly insulting, and besides, he wasn’t going to die. Derek, his new friend, came across pretty reliable.

Meanwhile, Murdock was about to explode. “Absolutely not!”

“Stay here?” The mayor gasped, his eyes threatening to bulge out. Jerry thought that maybe he shouldn’t have spoken so abruptly. If the mayor had a heart attack, wouldn’t Murdock become even more annoying?

Mayor Ashman didn’t know what to think. This unkempt, goofy man who seemed as though he hadn’t seen civilization in months was a mighty necromancer? A blight to the land? And he wanted to stay here?

Oh, no, Melissa is going to kill me. He sweated even harder. But Mother Manna preaches mercy. What should I do?

“Ashman.” Derek raised a hand, and his deep voice stopped the crowd’s whispers. “It is late, and we are all tired. How about this, my house will be his prison for the night. We can discuss this again in the morning.”

“You plan to take this murderer into your house?” Murdock hissed, and Derek glared at him.

“You shut your ugly mouth. All you can do is talk. When my daughter was attacked by the bandits, where were you? You go on and on about your magic, but at the end of the day, you’re just as useless as the rest of us. He saved her; he is my benefactor. Even if I die this night, I will not regret it.”

The wizard’s eyes widened in anger. He turned red and began shaking in his pointy shoes. Derek met Murdock’s stare with calm resolution.

“Make no mistake, Murdock,” he said. “This man saved you too. My daughter is all I have left, and you are responsible for protecting the village. That includes her. If your negligence had caused her harm, you would not live to see another dawn.”

The wizard’s eyes widened to the extreme, ready to lash out.

“I believe this is a fine idea,” the mayor spoke. “Under the eyes of Mother Manna, this man has shown no bad intentions toward us, and necromancers are not outlaws to begin with. If Derek is willing to brave the risk, so be it. We can meet again at dawn, not an hour later.”

Murdock was almost as red as his robes. He turned around, stomping away.

“Suit yourselves,” were his parting words. “Perhaps tomorrow our village will have one less idiot.”

Derek snorted loudly but did not reply.

“Disperse, everyone.” The mayor waved his hands in the air, and the crowd dissipated, sneaking glancing back Jerry’s way. He smiled whenever he met someone’s eye, but nobody smiled back.

“I expect to see you tomorrow.” Mayor Ashman gave a pointed look at the necromancer. “Murdock can be a strict man, but he’s not bad. I appreciate your actions in saving Holly. Don’t make me regret this decision.”

“Don’t worry, friend.” Jerry gave him his best smile. “I told you. I’m a good guy.”

Ashman couldn’t help smiling. “I certainly hope so,” he replied, walking away. “Goodbye, Jerry. May the Wall hold.”

“May it hold forever.”

A heavy hand landed on Jerry’s shoulder. Turning around, Derek was there, smiling widely. “That wasn’t a warm welcome, but I’ll show you my best hospitality. Tonight, my house is your house.”

5

DEREK THE HUNTER

Derek lived in a lovely little house at the edge of the village, crafted entirely out of wood. Besides a small storage shack outside, there were exactly two rooms; the main one, which was a little bit of everything, and Holly’s bedroom. Derek insisted that girls needed privacy and had built this extra room soon after her birth.

There was also an outhouse, of course. What were they, animals?

“This is a nice house,” Jerry commented, taking it all in. “Did you build it yourself?”

“Every plank and nail,” Derek replied lovingly, carrying Holly toward the house’s only inner door. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be with you in a second.”

Jerry, being the polite man he was, obeyed. He lounged deep in the second-largest chair he found, enjoying the feel of soft wool on his bottom. This was the first time he’d used a chair in gods know how long.

Solitude was nice, but it had its drawbacks. This softness was almost heavenly on Jerry’s tired bones.

My bones… Could I make myself into a skeleton? he wondered, but shelved the thought for later. For now, the softness came first.

The house’s interior was as simple as its exterior. An iron hearth was grafted onto the wall, right next to Jerry’s new favorite chair, with a stone chimney rising above it and through the roof. A small iron door blocked the hearth’s mouth, preventing the cold air from coming in whenever the fire wasn’t lit. There had even been a noticeable rise in temperature as soon as they walked in, making Jerry feel the need to remove his woolen coat

Unfortunately, that would require standing up, and the chair was just too comfortable.

Besides the wool-laden chair Jerry was resting in, and another, similar but larger chair, the only pieces of furniture were a wooden table surrounded by three simple wooden chairs. A cupboard rested against a wall, probably hiding plates and cutlery, while two closed windows took up the sides of the house. Finally, a pile of tanned fur lay in a corner—probably where Derek slept.

It was nice and clean. Derek was a simple man, which Jerry appreciated.

He rested there, dozing off without realizing it. Only a door closing brought Jerry out of his little nap. Apparently, he was more tired than he’d thought.

“What do you think?” Derek asked, walking into the room. “Does my home satisfy you?”

“I think it’s perfect. It suits you well,” the necromancer replied. “And honestly, after months in the forest, this place is heaven. Especially this chair. How is your daughter?”

Derek smiled. “She’ll be fine. Just a bit terrified, that’s all. She’ll wake up tomorrow with a headache and a hoarse throat, but nothing a good day’s rest can’t fix.”

The large man took a seat, occupying the larger woolen chair by the hearth, only to quickly rise again. “You must be cold. Wait here. I’ll bring some wood from the storage.”

Jerry wanted to refuse, but he really couldn’t. He hadn’t felt the warmth of fire amidst hospitality in… quite some time. It was better than he remembered.

Derek smiled at his guest’s expression and exited the house, returning with a pile of logs under his arm.

“These should last us a while,” he said, opening the hearth’s mouth and revealing two half-burnt logs already inside, resting on a bed of coals. A cold breeze came in as the house was connected to the air outside. The sun had already fallen. “Sorry about the draft. It will die down in a moment.”

“Ah, fire… You’re a generous host, Derek. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” The large man waved Jerry off as he set the tinder and logs up in a square shape, then got some flint to light it up. “You’re my family’s benefactor, so it’s only right we treat you properly. Besides, we outcasts should stick together. Could you describe what happened with Holly? I’m sorry for the rush, but I would like to know everything.”

Jerry smiled warmly. Then, as his host tended to the fire, he told the story of what happened. How he’d heard screams and ran off to help, only for his skeletal minions to obliterate the bandits. How Holly had been terrified of everything, and how Murdock had mistaken him for the bad guy.

He also added how the wizard’s new scar was due to Foxy, at which point both men shared some hearty laughter. Disliking Murdock was mutual, apparently.

Relaxed, Jerry went on to add more details to his story. He began from his lovable undead, Boboar and Foxy, before going into his own past, describing how he’d been wandering in search of a village to live in, and that he was about to give up for the winter. His thoughts went back in time, speaking of his magic and how suppressing it made him a husk of a man for the greater part of his life.

How he had finally wavered, vented, then left his home forever to enter the woods. His experiments with necromancy, detailing that it wasn’t evil, as people thought, and about all the exciting things he could achieve with it.

“One time, I animated a fox skeleton with boar tusks,” he said. “It couldn’t move very fast, but it liked to climb on tree branches and fall on unsuspecting prey tusk-first.”

“Where did you find such an animal?”

“I didn’t find it; I made it. I can graft bones of different skeletons together. It isn’t always easy, because I need to recreate all the fine joints and connection points with my magic, but just attaching tusks to the ends of a fox’s jaws was simple. You should see Boboar; he’s a double-boar skeleton—I connected two similar skeletons to create one with double the power and tenacity. He looks fierce, but he’s actually a very good boy.”

“So you used complex magic to tie the two skeletons together? Why not rope?”

Jerry opened his mouth to respond, then thought better about it. “You know what? I never considered it, but I don’t think it would work. I would need to animate each skeleton separately, which would make them two individuals tied together. I can explain bone grafting in more detail if you want.”

“Please don’t. Just tell me about the most amusing skeletons you’ve made.”

Jerry obliged. Nothing beat the tusked fox, but there were many oddities amongst his early experiments. Derek laughed often. The deep, earnest sound vibrated with the wooden walls.

At some point, Derek had retrieved a bottle and two cups from the cupboard, giving Jerry a strong kind of orange wine. He drank it carefully; it had been months since he’d last touched alcohol.

With the clay cup in hand, Jerry opened his heart and let everything out, all the little things he wanted to share with someone but hadn’t been able to. Without realizing it, he talked for a long time. When he stopped, the moon was halfway up the sky, and the first two logs had already become coal in the bottom of Derek’s hearth.

“Oh, sorry,” Jerry exclaimed, realizing he’d spoken for longer than intended, “did I overexplain? I wanted to add some context to the bandit encounter.”

“That’s all right.” Derek smiled warmly. “You needed it.”

“Yeah, I did… To be fair, you did ask for details.”

Derek laughed, having drunk three quarters of the bottle himself. “You seem like a good guy, Jerry. Allow me to apologize for Murdock again. He can be an asshole.”

“It’s fine.” The necromancer sighed, huddling deeper in his oh-so-heavenly chair. “It was an honest misunderstanding, and, well, my fox did almost kill him. Anyone would be upset.”

“Upset enough to demand the other person’s lynching?”

“If the other person was a necromancer, many would do the same. But yeah, he does seem like an asshole. At least the rest of the village isn’t.”

“You’d be surprised,” Derek said darkly. “Maybe they’re not bad people, but they’re stupid to a fault. Murdock often preaches that wizards are different, superior to us normal folk, and the idiots around here nod like pecking hens. They don’t understand that he’s mocking them or that, besides the ability to throw fire, wizards are as human as everyone else. Many of the villagers simply trust Murdock blindly; he’s a wizard and an herbalist, so of course they do. Even Ashman does so, though his capitulation is out of necessity. Murdock’s presence is too valuable.”

“Ashman… That’s the mayor, right?”

“Too grand a word for our little village.” Derek shook his head. “Melissa, his wife, is an ambitious woman. Like Murdock, she enjoys feeling superior. She wants her husband to be the mayor, so he calls himself mayor.”

“She sounds like a great man of the house.”

Derek laughed. “In a way. Our little Pilpen needs someone at the reins, and those two are doing a good enough job.”

“Ah, Pilpen. I was wondering about the village’s name.”

Derek looked up in surprise. Jerry smiled.

“Oh, where are my manners? I assumed you knew.” The hunter huffed. “Sorry, Jerry. This is Pilpen, in the vicinity of Milaris. We are a few houses of hunters, gatherers, lumberjacks, and herders. That’s pretty much it. Merchants come occasionally to buy our wares and bring us vegetables from the plains, but you won’t see them till spring. Their wealthy asses can’t handle the cold.”

“You seem to like them.”

“They scam us for sport.” Derek snorted. “But, let’s not touch that subject. In the village, for starters, you need to know three people. Thankfully for you, you’ve met them already: Ashman, our mayor and pastor, and Murdock, our wizard and herbalist. As for the third one, well—” he pointed a thumb at himself— “that’s me. I am a hunter, and a damn good one. In the forest, I run things.”

“Awesome.” Jerry smiled as the fire cracked. “And why would I want to know these people?”

“It’s important if you’re going to settle here.”

“Settle here? But Murdock said I can’t.”

“And I say you damn well can,” Derek asserted. “I’ll put in a good word for you. My opinion weighs as much as that asshole’s, and the mayor is a good man, if a bit weak-willed. He won’t let you go into the winter alone. Just… be careful, my friend. This world is harsh to outcasts.”

“Really? You’ll help me?” Jerry’s eyes brightened. “Thanks, Derek. I owe you one!”

“You saved my daughter.” The hunter laughed. “I owe you plenty still!”

The two men kept chatting into the night, each enjoying the other’s company. When the moon eventually reached its peak, they’d relented about having to get up early tomorrow. Before meeting the mayor at dawn, Jerry had to wash and shave. Though he didn’t smell, he did look like a crazy hermit, according to Derek. Not the best image for an important meeting.

“And here I thought I looked decent,” Jerry said.

“Decent for someone who lives outside civilization. Don’t worry, we’ll fix you up in the morning. Take the fur,” Derek said, pointing at the stitched row of furs that usually served as his bed. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“That’s all right, I’m used to sleeping on the ground. Been doing that for months already.”

“My friend, that’s exactly why you need the furs!” The hunter smiled widely, and Jerry couldn’t stop himself from smiling back. “It’s not much of a bed, but I can’t let my guest sleep on the floor.”

Jerry touched the tanned fur. It was smooth—heavenly, even, just like the chair. Oh, how long it had been since he’d slept on something soft. This pile of fur may not be much to Derek, but to Jerry, they were made of clouds.

He lay down, full of happiness. Derek was a good man. As for the village of Pilpen… It was probably as good a place as any.

Morning arrived quickly—and with the cock’s crowing came the day’s most important event. That’s right, Jerry’s grooming.

With a borrowed blade from Derek and his outhouse’s slanted mirror, Jerry managed to make himself presentable. It turned out that a nice bath in the river, a clean shave, a set of new clothes, and a haircut by the village’s best hunter could do wonders for a man’s image.

After that came the day’s second most important event, the village council, and Jerry showed up all clean and fresh and civilized. The people there didn’t even recognize him at first.

Murdock objected fiercely to letting him stay. He believed that Jerry should be outright killed, not just kicked out. Derek then shut the wizard down, swearing that Jerry was, indeed, a good guy.

“What can he even do for us?” boomed Murdock. “Scare our children into bed?”

“I can make shoes,” said Jerry, leading to many raised brows. He shrugged. “Raising the dead is a side hustle.”

“See?” Derek grinned. “Exactly what we needed!”

Despite the wizard’s insistence on the opposite, Derek’s heavy guarantee eventually won the mayor over, and it was decided that Jerry could stay in the village at least until spring.

Under two conditions:

The first was dictated by the mayor’s wife, Melissa—a beautiful, raven-haired woman with a sharp tongue who also participated in the village council alongside three more villagers who didn’t speak much. Jerry would not be living inside the village, but rather in a residence an hour away. Atop a rocky hill stood an abandoned guard tower, where the kingdom used to station a contingent of soldiers to guard against bandits. That plan was eventually abandoned because the soldiers stationed there kept dying, and the building had fallen into disrepair.

It would now be Jerry’s, and he would be responsible for fixing it up. He didn’t mind the work; after seeing Derek’s home, he wanted to make a nice place for himself, too. He also didn’t mind that his new home was an hour’s walk away from the village. His last walk—searching for a place to call home—had lasted for about six months, and he was only half-tired by the end of it.

The second condition had come from the mayor himself. Jerry had to promise to use his powers to protect the village from bandit attacks. That’s what really convinced the villagers to let him stay, as the Greenskin bandits had moved closer to them this year and raids had already befallen several neighboring villages. Fear was high, and extra power was urgently needed.

Jerry agreed easily. Bandits were bad guys, while he was a good guy. They were natural enemies. Besides, he could also protect his new neighbors and gather corpses for his research. Three birds with one stone.

Murdock was severely irritated by this idea, as he was the one responsible for the village’s safety. He took this as an insult to his abilities. However, after Derek’s stern reminder that it had been Jerry, and not Murdock, who saved his daughter, the wizard was forced to shut up. The poor guy was so angry he almost ate his fancy hat.

Nobody else had any objections, so the agreement was made formal by shaking hands. Most of the villagers still gave Jerry the stink eye, but oh well. He wasn’t here to make friends with everyone, only a select few. He was a lonely man by nature.

And so, as the sun was still rising, Jerry left the village for his soon-to-be necromancer’s tower.

However, he had some important things to do first; get Boboar and Foxy, and then fetch yesterday’s bandit corpses. They couldn’t come to his tower themselves.

Yet.

6

CHORES FIRST, NECROMANCY SECOND

On the subject of souls, I must admit my fascination. For centuries, they have remained an enigma, both in their nature and specific qualities, but I believe I hold the key to unprecedented discoveries.

Previous research indicates that, when undead rise, they inherit a part of the soul of the body’s previous owner. This incomplete soul deteriorates with the amount of time between death and reanimation. Additionally, it does not contain any memories, barring extremely rare cases. What it does contain is the nature of the previous individual, which makes a pig behave like a pig and a human behave like a human. This excludes cases of soul infusion, of course.

However, I have recently had the chance to meaningfully interact with the servants of a different necromancer, a circumstance we are often barred from due to enemies in between us. To my surprise, after continuous observation, I realized that that necromancer’s undead behaved differently compared to my own!

In light of this revelation, I theorize that when brought back to this world, the souls are warped by the nature of their summoner. If this is true, it could bring about a revolution in our studies and the way we think about souls!

- An excerpt from ‘Undead Souls and their Relation to the Summoner’ by Ozborne the Cursed

On his way out of Pilpen, the first thing Jerry did was fetch his friends. Boboar and Foxy waited in the bushes outside the village, running up to Jerry the very moment they saw him. Their relief was palpable—they could sense that Jerry was safe, but they still worried about him.

“Hey there, guys.” Jerry smiled as they carefully rubbed against him. He would have scratched them behind the ears if they had any.

Afterward, it was time to fetch the bandit corpses. They were right where he left them, completely untouched by the forest animals, which was a relief. Instead of reanimating the three bandits on the spot, Jerry chose to take them to his new tower so he could experiment at his leisure.

Boboar, being the superbly good boy that he was, helped carry the bodies, and so they simply walked to the abandoned guard tower.

Clocks were luxury items meant for the merchants and kingdom officials who had to fit many obligations into their day. This goes to say that Pilpen, being the small village that it was, had no clocks, and while the villagers were vaguely aware of how long an hour was, they simply used the term to describe a period of time which was neither too short nor too long. It also helped them feel cultured, a feeling they very much enjoyed.

In other words, the exact time it took to arrive at the tower was unknown, but Jerry, who also didn’t have a clock, thought it could be said to be vaguely close to an hour. A figure waved at them from the tower’s front.

“Hey!” Derek shouted as soon as they closed in. “You got here quickly. It’s only been an hour!”

He had offered to help, and Jerry had sent him ahead with a cart of tools, not wanting to burden the man with corpse-keeping.

“I told you it would be fast. Boboar is a really good boy.”

“Takes after his master.” The large, tanned man bent down to take a better look at the skeletons. “Hey, little fellows. You’re not at all disturbing like Murdock makes you out to be. You’re a fox, and you must be the double-boar Jerry mentioned?”

“They can’t speak,” Jerry said with a laugh.

“They’re magic. For all I know, they can sing and dance the chak-tak-tak.”

“Maybe in the future. Allow me to make the introductions—guys, this is Derek, our new friend. Derek, this is Foxy, and this is Boboar. He’s a combination of two boar skeletons into one, hence Boboar.” Jerry’s chest stuck out in pride. “I spent all summer working on this guy.”

“I see,” the hunter said. He was a hardened man, unaffected by the skeletons and the rotting corpses they carried. He pointed behind him. “Should we get to housekeeping?”

The abandoned guard tower was placed atop a rocky hill close to the top of the mountain, giving it good visibility over this part of the mountainside. The only strategic drawback was that the ridge’s spine stood a few hundred feet behind the tower, hiding whatever was behind it from view, but there was probably a reason why the tower had been placed here instead of there.

The building itself resembled a gray, three-storied brick. The walls were vertical, with only the occasional narrow window and certainly no balconies, while the building’s shape was rectangular to a fault. The roof was surrounded by battlements, allowing the inhabitants to shoot from cover in the event of an attack. Though there was no wall to be seen.

As the tower was built on rocky terrain, there were no plants attempting a hostile takeover, and mice had also left it alone—probably. It had been abandoned last autumn, and all leftover food should have long been consumed by critters.

What did exist, was tons of dust. Possible structural instability, too, but there wasn’t much Jerry could do about that unless he magicked an engineer into existence.

Staring at the massive building, the necromancer realized that he’d thoroughly underestimated the monumental undertaking that would be cleaning this place. Even though he knew the art of letting time pass, wiping the floor for days on end would hardly be pleasant.

“Man, am I glad to be a necromancer,” he said, placing his hands at his waist. “Take a step back, Derek. Oh, and you might want to look away. I’m about to make some skeletons.”

“Please.” Derek snorted. “I’ve seen worse. You wouldn’t believe how messy childbirth can be.”

“All right. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He’d planned to experiment with the bodies, but dirty problems called for dirty solutions. Raising his hands, he reached for his magic, grasping the invisible darkness that was his soul. Then, with a mental push, he forced it out of him and into the corpses.

Into one of the corpses, actually; the one that Boboar had penetrated in the abdomen with his tusks. The spine and ribcage were still intact, thankfully.

Jerry had never worked with human bodies before, and the sheer amount of energy it took to reanimate them was staggering; a far cry from even Boboar. As soon as he felt something click in the body, he stopped.

Derek raised a brow. “What’s supposed to⁠—”

Gore was a core part of any hunter’s life. Derek hadn’t batted an eye at the skeletal animals or the bandit corpses. When the skeleton ripped its way out of the flesh, however, he turned around and almost emptied his stomach right then and there.

“Holy fucking hell!” he shouted hoarsely. “What the fuck, Jerry!”

“Told you it was messy.” The necromancer shrugged. “Anyway, Derek, meet Skeleton One. Skeleton One, meet Derek.”

The skeleton clacked its jaw. It was a normal human skeleton, no bits missing, despite its gruesome death.

Contrary to what one might expect, the skeleton didn’t look threatening. It stood there aimlessly, as if simply chilling, and looked around with the curiosity of a newborn. Its perfectly round skull even made it look cute, at least in Jerry’s eyes.

Derek was mortified, probably due to the bits and pieces of flesh still clinging to the skeleton, as well as the copious amount of blood and gore.

Does necromancy make me immune to disgust? Jerry wondered before deciding he didn’t care much.

“Ah, there’s a problem,” he realized. “There is no water source nearby. Our friend will need to walk all the way to the stream.”

“Please,” Derek spoke weakly. He was pale but already better than before. “But not in the village’s stream, unless you want Murdock to come here with a pitchfork and a holy book. There is another stream in the forest, closer to here, in that direction.” He pointed south. “It should be half an hour away, give or take.”

“Give or take what?” Jerry asked, inspecting his new creation.

“An hour. How would I know?”

Boboar and Foxy had also approached the skeleton, fascinated by their new bony friend. They sniffed it and looked it over, while the skeleton also looked at them with curiosity. It developed a mind of its own far faster than the animals had, apparently. An interesting observation.

“All right,” Jerry sighed. “Skeleton One, go wash in the stream over there. Make sure to scrub all the flesh off you. In fact, scrub yourself to the bone.”

Derek facepalmed.

“Meanwhile, I’ll raise the other two as zombies. They’re messier in the long run, but cleaner in the short run. They can always be skeletonized when the job is done.”

“Do you intend to have them clean the tower?” Derek asked curiously, to which Jerry nodded. “Fascinating,” murmured the hunter.

Raising his arms again, Jerry made a corpse into a zombie, which took more magic power than a skeleton. A day in the forest hadn’t let it decompose much, making the walking dead seem like a walking living, if one looked from very far away and in the dark.

The most noticeable difference was the head, which was not attached to the rest of the body and only remained in place due to gravity and Jerry placing it there when the zombie was up. Foxy had torn its neck apart during the fight. Again, the animals approached to inspect the new arrival, but it simply stayed in place unmoving. Its soul seemed far less advanced than the previous undead.

Was it due to being a zombie, or was there some other reason? An interesting question to pursue.

As for the third and final corpse, it was the one that Boboar had stomped to death. Its torso was completely destroyed, along with the spine beneath, making it unsuitable for reanimation as a zombie, contrary to Jerry’s plan.

Here, Jerry had to take drastic measures. He first animated the bones, making them exit the body, much to Derek’s horror. Then, he de-animated them before using a set of gloves that Derek had brought to mess with the bone structure. When he was done, he reanimated the skeleton.

It stood up, and it was really quite short. Jerry had been forced to remove the middle part of its spine, crafting a skeleton that was only legs, shoulders, arms, and a head. It would be comical if it wasn’t visceral.

Okay, maybe it was still quite funny.

He couldn’t repair the headless zombie the same way, unfortunately, as that would require turning it into a skeleton.

Just like the zombie, this skeleton showed no hints of intelligence. It simply stayed there unmoving, waiting for Jerry’s commands. This refuted the previous theory—zombies being unintelligent—and raised many new questions. Was the soul’s strength a product of luck? Was it related to the body’s previous owner? How did these souls come to be in the first place? What even was a soul?

All interesting questions, and all needed further research. But first, the chores.

“All right, Shorty, you go wash in the stream over there. Rub yourself clean,” Jerry ordered, to which the skeleton clacked in obedience and took off. “And you, Headless, grab a broom and get to work. Our tower won’t clean itself!”

The zombie saluted, which made its head drop off. After a fit of massive disorientation, it placed its head under an armpit, grabbed a broom from Derek’s cart with the other hand, and stumbled away toward the tower, tripping and falling at least two times.

“I have to admit,” Derek said, “the undead are much less intimidating than I thought.”

“They are, aren’t they? I get the distinct impression they don’t have to be goofy like this, but… I don’t know. I kinda like it. They remind me of me.”

“So we should expect them to go on a walk and return next year?” Both men laughed. “Actually,” Derek, continued, “what happens if the skeletons don’t find the stream? My directions were pretty rough.”

“Then we’ll have a series of very annoyed villages on our tail,” Jerry said. “I have the feeling they’ll just keep walking until they find water. Maybe they really will return next year. How funny would it be if they walked all the way to the Narrow Sea, took a quick dip, and walked right back?”

“For us, very. For the villages on the way—that would be scared twice—not so much.”

“Oh, well. I’ll give better commands next time.”

After a bit of bantering, the two grabbed a broom each from Derek’s cart and got to cleaning. Boboar and Foxy also volunteered to help; thankfully, Derek had brought enough tools for everyone to work with. The man could certainly see ahead—unlike Headless, who exhibited an uncanny inability to walk.

As soon as they entered the tower, they found the zombie rolling on the ground behind the entrance, looking for his head. With his elementary intelligence, the coordination required was outright hellish.

Jerry didn’t hold it against the zombie; with time, he would grow smarter and used to his disability. Probably. He picked the head up and returned it to Headless, receiving a stare of gratification, which turned into abject horror when the zombie once again dropped the head.

Sighing, they left Headless looking for his head and started cleaning. The two skeletons also returned after about an hour, all squeaky clean and ready to help. And the amount of work to be done was mind-boggling. This would be a long, long day.

7

BANDITRY IS A THANKLESS JOB

After a day’s work for the undead and half a day’s for the living, the abandoned guard tower was no longer abandoned, nor did it house any guards. Instead, it now belonged to a very satisfied necromancer, named Jerry, who had never in his life felt prouder at owning something.

Shoes were nice, sure, but a tower was a tower, and what was a necromancer without his tower?

Of course, there was still plenty of work to be done, but the building was at least habitable.

Sometime around noon, Jerry and Derek had stopped working and started lazing about. Being a necromancer had its perks, and besides, Jerry didn’t want to take advantage of Derek’s goodwill. They’d simply done the jobs that required a human mind. The more menial tasks, like wiping the endless dust off the floors, had been left to the tireless undead.

There were three floors to the tower, each simpler than the last. The ground floor housed rooms for the guards, with five two-person bedrooms and one for only one person, presumably the commander. Decorated army-style, of course, which meant not at all.

A flight of thin stone stairs later, came the storage room. Probably. It was empty now, as everything of value had been ransacked by the villagers or bandits, and only a few broken arrows remained in a corner.

On the third and final floor was a living room, or what resembled it. Wooden chairs sat around three tables while a stove rested in a corner, all too heavy and bulky to be carried away by the looters. Some cupboards still contained stuff, and it was so rotten and dirty and smelly that the cupboards were summarily removed and thrown down a nearby cliff.

A few cooking utensils were spared, though; they could be useful.

Above the third floor was the roof with its battlements, which would be useless to Jerry until he could procure bows and arrows.

However, the most important part of the building was below ground, because there was a basement! Jerry was ecstatic! What self-respecting necromancer did not have a basement?

It was only occupied by two half-filled water barrels and a ton of multi-legged insects, but it would soon serve as Jerry’s laboratory. No sense in frightening guests with all the messy details.

Of course, the house was filled with bugs, mostly cockroaches. Foxy took charge here, mopping the floor with the critters, and Derek procured two more fox bodies from the forest.

Two skeletons were extracted from the corpses and set to bug hunting, while Derek strung the remaining flesh up to extract the blood and prepared a bonfire for later. It wouldn’t be the best meal, but it would do.

Night came, and Derek left after they ate, leaving behind his cart of tools. Jerry promised to return it soon and thanked him profusely for all his help.

He then surveyed his little army of undead. There was Skeleton One, Shorty, Headless, Boboar, Foxy, and two extra foxes who did not get a name as they would be de-animated soon. Keeping up too many undead was tiring for Jerry, though he didn’t know why.

It wasn’t some grand undead army, but he was getting there.

Of them all, Jerry eventually decided to keep Headless as a zombie, even though they were a bit messier than skeletons. It would be handy to have a zombie close by for experiments, plus his intimidation factor was higher like this.

As for the bandit corpses themselves, Jerry had rifled through their clothes and found nothing. Only a couple worn-out taels lined their pockets, which wouldn’t be too useful in the villages here—they mostly traded through barter, not currency—as well as their shortswords and the clothes they wore.

None of this was immediately useful, so Jerry threw them in the storage room.

Night came and passed, the necromancer sleeping in the guard commander’s room, where the foxes had taken extra care to remove all bugs.

The undead kept working through the night, tireless and with adequate eyesight. From last night’s foxes, Jerry had crafted Headless a pair of leather strips that he used to keep his head at chest height, wrapping them around the base of his neck.

Come next morning, the tower was mostly clean, so the undead were sent to gather water, food, and firewood. Then, they began cleaning again. Jerry spent the day putting his woodworking skills to the test. Headless used an axe to chop the wood into usable shapes, then Jerry used the nails and hammer provided in Derek’s cart to fashion the wood into crude but serviceable furniture.

He made a long bench. That’s all. At least, he had tons of wood to spare for later, which was nice, and Headless was still chopping away at the poor forest.

Tables and chairs were aplenty, as were beds, utensils, and the stove. Honestly, the tower was pretty set, especially after the bench he installed in the basement. It hadn’t been abandoned long enough for the old furniture to rot.

Now, only one thing was left to do. Grabbing a rough wooden pike, an equally rough wooden tablet, and a paintbrush from Derek’s cart, he took off toward the entrance. A few moments later, a wooden sign was placed in front of the tower for all to see.

‘Jerry Shoeson. Shoemaker.’

Jerry looked at it and nodded in satisfaction. Finally, with the housework mostly done, it was time for something much more fun.

“Oh, Shortyyy! Boneyyy!” Jerry called out, and the comically short zombie approached. The poor guy only reached the base of a normal person’s chest as it lacked a torso. Jerry waited until Boney—the strangely cognizant skeleton who had outgrown the name Skeleton One—arrived, too.

“Come with me, boys.” The necromancer gave them an evil grin. “I suppose we’re done with work, so it’s experiments time!”

“Certainly, Master,” Boney replied.

Jerry froze. “Come again?”

The central basin of the Axel Ridge was occupied by thick, towering giants made of bark and wood. They were dark brown, though the light in the area was plenty.

On the branches of some of these large trees were houses built entirely of wood, with hanging bridges connecting the different trunks. There were a few dozens of these houses, all exuding a natural air of tranquility.

However, despite the place’s serene atmosphere, there was no calmness to be found. The wooden treehouses, for all their beauty, were occupied by cutthroats, bandits, highwaymen, murderers, and all other kinds of ugly folk. This was the hideout of the Greenskin bandits, a bandit crew as feared as it was infamous, the terror of all nearby settlements.

On the higher branches of the largest tree stood a hut sturdier than the others. Its walls were plain and not at all decorated, but its sole occupant’s importance could not be overstated.

A young bandit by the name of Brad arrived before this hut. He was blond, with piercing blue eyes and a square jaw, while his muscular chest was outlined by a white vest that seemed untouched by the forest’s dirt.

It hadn’t been a year since he joined, but his cunning and ruthlessness had earned him a rank close to the top. The unfortunate accidents that his superiors tended to suffer helped, too.

“Boss,” he said, hesitantly knocking on the door.

He waited. A few moments later, a man’s rough voice resounded.

“Enter.”

Brad respectfully pushed the door open, revealing a clean, tidy interior filled with books and bookshelves, everything centered around one large, mahogany desk—how that had been carried all the way up here was a mystery.

Atop the desk lay an open book, a goose-feathered quill, and a small ink box, while on the nearby chair sat a person that should, by sheer context, be calm and scholarly.

Jericho looked anything but.

He was a bronze-skinned titan of a man, large and full of tense muscle, barely fitting in the wide chair. His hair was long, dark, and straight, while his eyes were a deeply vivid green. Despite the sharp, plain clothes he wore, despite his serene expression and scholarly environment he placed himself in, Jericho still managed to strike the impression of a tiger ready to pounce; a loose, violent beast about to tear you limb from limb with its bare hands.

Even standing in his presence was enough to make most men buckle.

Just as Brad entered the hut, Jericho looked up from the open book as if engrossed in its contents. It was only a façade, of course—this was Jericho’s deepest, most sacred secret, a taboo so great no one would mention it.

Though he enjoyed looking cultured, Jericho couldn’t read.

This was a secret every bandit was aware of, but who dared tell him? Their leader was infamous for abrupt bursts of violence.

“Speak, Brad,” said Jericho, his voice deep and commanding.

“We lost three men near the village of Pilpen, sir,” the younger bandit said. “They either ran away or were killed.”

“What is the village of Pilpen?”

“It is to the west, sir. A tiny village two days away, those three men had been sent to scout it out a week ago. They did not return.”

“I see,” Jericho said. Brad held his breath. “You have a strong mind, Brad. What do you think? Did they desert us?”

“I… Thank you, sir. I believe they ran away. Dying at such a tiny village would be unlikely.”

Brad’s voice carried reserved confidence, the kind he knew superiors liked. It saved them the trouble of thinking themselves.

“Good,” Jericho said.

“Then—”

“Send twelve men to the village,” Jericho ordered. “Whether they deserted or died, it matters little. They disappeared near that village, and so the village must burn. Let them pay, and let all others know the fate that awaits them should they cross us—this is how we, the Greenskin bandits, act.”

“Very well, sir.”

Brad bowed and walked backward, ready to leave.

“And, Brad?” called out the chief.

“Yes, sir?”

“Most of the men call me boss or chief… Only you call me sir. You are a cultured man, Brad; I like that about you, so do try to keep your head on your shoulders—unlike everyone else’s, it seems to work. I expect great things from you.”

“You honor me, sir.” Brad bowed deeper. “I’ll do my best.”

Jericho nodded, turned back to the book he pretended to read, and Brad closed the door behind him. He smiled. Oh, what a bright future I have.

8

FIERCE EXPERIMENTING

As dictated by the laws of magic, every power has a drawback. For pyromancers, it is their fire’s voracious need for energy. For necromancers, it is the strain we must endure to sustain our undead.

When we control an undead, we not only need to maintain the bonds between its body and soul, but also provide enough energy to constantly wrestle the soul under submission and force it to obey us. Otherwise, the undead collapse or rebel, running off and causing mayhem. It is this second requirement, the constant suppression of the soul, which imposes the greatest strain.

And great it is. The creation of wild undead is another subject, but even the most ancient of liches cannot directly control more than a hundred undead at a time. In the first years of a novice necromancer, controlling even three is an achievement. If we could somehow permanently place the soul under our control, that would increase our powers exponentially. Unfortunately, despite the combined efforts of many two-feather necromancers over the years, despite what torture, blackmail, and hypnotism we tried, we have still not found a way to make the soul submit.

- From Introduction to Necromancy by Akolateronim

“I said, certainly, Master.”

Jerry threw the skeleton an incredulous gaze.

“You can talk!”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

Boney’s voice was a bit hoarse and raspy, but otherwise resembled the voice of a healthy man made up of more than just bones. The largest difference was that his jaw clacked as he spoke, making funny noises.

“You lack vocal cords, for starters. And a throat. And a mouth. And lungs.”

“Hmm, that I do.” Boney looked over himself. “Now that you mention it, Master, it does seem odd.”

Jerry placed his hands on his hips. “Why didn’t you tell me you could speak?”

“Because you never asked,” the skeleton replied matter-of-factly. “I assumed you knew.”

“But I—Bah, never mind. At least I know now.” Jerry turned to the other skeleton. “Can you speak as well?”

Shorty looked on.

“Yeah. I guess I did remove your torso. If you can speak, just do a hand gesture or something.”

The skeleton somehow managed to look confused, even without a face.

“Okay, I guess you don’t.” Jerry turned back to Boney. “But you can. Why?”

“I don’t know, Master. I am not the necromancer here.”

Ouch.

“Hey, I’m new to the job. Still working on the basics.”

“Same here.”

Jerry regarded Boney carefully. Having a talking, thinking skeleton sounded convenient. Now, Jerry could have some company, and Boney could also take on more complicated tasks than ‘chop wood’ or ‘wipe the floor.’

Jerry thought for a moment and concluded that, indeed, he liked talking skeletons. He nodded to himself and crossed his arms.

“All right, then, Boney. I have to admit you’re interesting. Tell me about yourself.”

“I was a bandit, Master, I remember that much, until I was slain by the hellish beast you call Boboar. I had a name, too, Tom, though Boney suits me better now.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Jerry nodded, happy that his new friend appreciated his excellent naming sense. “So, you’re one of the bandits I, uh, gently put down?”

“Violently murdered, Master. But yes. I was Tom, or at least I think I was. I know the things he knew. Does that make me him?”

“That’s a deep thought for a guy who probably can’t count to ten.”

“On the contrary, Master.” Boney proudly raised his head. “I can count up to a hundred!”

That wasn’t too bad. In a world where education was reserved for the noble or rich, and where a villager would rarely if ever need to use a number above twenty, counting to a hundred was an achievement.

In fact, Jerry himself could only count to a hundred, too.

“Then, did Tom’s soul somehow remain intact inside you? Why just you, though? What was different compared to the others? Perhaps because they were severely deformed?”

“I do not know, Master.”

“But you remember everything?”

“Mostly,” Boney said. “I remember all about Tom’s family, his friends, his fears, his dreams, his bitter disappointment with himself, and the following need to run away and become a worm-eating bandit. Nothing too important. The fact that I used to be someone so plain chills me to the bone. Thank Manna you came, Master—actually, wait, we can’t believe in her anymore, can we? Who’s our patron now? Desistos, the God of Death?”

Jerry blinked. Those were many words, and had the skeleton snuck in a bone pun? Jerry was uncertain. Maybe it was accidental.

Words and bones aside, there was one thing every proper necromancer needed. Boney fit the bill perfectly; he could even count!

“Boney,” he said with pride, “you have just been promoted to my undead butler. Congratulations!”

“A meaningless promotion? Yay!” Boney’s jaw clacked excitedly. Jerry wasn’t sure whether he was being made fun of. “Everything will be as you wish, Master. I will work myself to the bone for you.”

Okay, this one was definitely on purpose.

“I have the feeling most necromancers don’t have to deal with this kind of thing.” Jerry grabbed his face and sighed. “By the way, your name was also promoted. You are now Tom Boney. I like the sound of it.”

“Very well, Master. I will not disappoint you.” Tom Boney stood at attention. “What should I do, though?”

“Well, you can start by building a fence around the property. Have Headless help you out. I’m thinking maybe fifteen feet from the walls. I technically own everything around here, but let’s start small.”

“Actually, Master, the king owns everything around here. Technically.”

Jerry raised a brow.

“An easy problem. Tom Boney, from this moment forth, we rebel, and we are founding our own kingdom where I am king and you are the… vice-king. From now on, this tower belongs to the Kingdom of Shoemakery and Undeathly Shenanigans.”

“Ah yes, a name fit for a proper kingdom.”

“It’s descriptive. Why would someone name their kingdom something nonsensical, like Escarbot? I believe it means ‘beetle’ in some ancient language, but does it really matter if nobody knows? Anyway, our land includes this tower and fifteen feet around it, with plans of future expansion. See any army here to stop us? No? Then, I declare the rebellion a success, and you can proceed with building a wall.”

Jerry stared at the skeleton, squashing any other retort before it even appeared, or at least he tried.

“First butler, then vice-king. I do love empty job titles. This is the happiest day of my unlife,” Boney replied flatly.

“If only I can find a way to develop non-sarcastic undead, life will be perfect.” Jerry sighed, though he was secretly proud of his undead army’s newest addition. “Now, Boney, get to work while I head downstairs with Shorty. There is a fence to build, and much knowledge to be found!”

“As you command, Master.” Boney nodded and immediately took off toward the forest, where Headless was mindlessly chopping wood.

Jerry watched him leave. This was an unexpected but pleasant surprise. If only he could fix the humor…

Shaking his head, Jerry grabbed Shorty’s shoulder and led the poor sod inside, talking all the while. The skeleton couldn’t respond, of course, but Jerry liked thinking out loud.

“These are the rooms for you”—he pointed at the many doors down the hallway—“though you don’t actually need to sleep. Still, having a room is basic propriety. That one, the big one, is mine. Say, Shorty, what should we do with you? You are pretty short, which is bound to be useful, somehow, but how indeed? Hmm.”

Jerry kept speaking as they descended the stone staircase, entering the tower’s dark bowels.

“Say, Shorty, I forgot to ask Boney, but you don’t feel pain, right?”

The skeleton nodded.

“That’s great! You’re my undead, but also my friends. I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

He then set Shorty on the rough wooden bench and proceeded to hurt him.

Of course, he did temporarily de-animate Shorty before he began. Pain aside, this simply felt better.

Jerry had big plans for this guy. Well, not originally, but some interesting thoughts came as he played around.

Jerry was very self-conscious about his place in the world. He wasn’t stupid. Many people despised necromancers, and if he stayed in the same place for a long time, trouble was bound to come. He needed the strength to protect himself, which meant he needed an undead army—even a small one.

Murdock’s hostility and power had driven that point home. Jerry didn’t fear death, of course, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t play the game of life.

So, back to Shorty’s business. Due to being mostly limbs, Shorty was very agile. He was also fast, as his body was lighter than expected while maintaining most of the strength of a whole man. How exactly that worked was still a mystery, though Jerry would unpack it with time.

Due to his agility, Shorty was perfectly built for being a stealthy, deadly skeleton; Jerry’s protector in the shadows. Therefore, banking on that deadliness, Jerry experimented with bone shaping. He used a sharp knife—thank Desistos for Derek’s cart of tools—to sharpen the tips of Shorty’s digits, turning his hands into collections of blades. If he could also make the fingers glisten, Shorty would become an extremely intimidating shorty. He also noticed that Shorty’s teeth were jagged enough to be sharp, which was convenient.

When the deed was done, the necromancer stepped back and admired his creation.

If enemies appeared, Shorty would spread terror in their ranks like a knife spreading butter and, if that didn’t work, oh well, at least he’d had his fun. Experimenting gave Jerry profound amounts of joy, and he was unsure whether this was an innate property of necromancy or if he was simply built for it.

He just had to remember not to take this skeleton to the village.

Done with this part of the work and tired already, Jerry reanimated Shorty and had him walk around. He couldn’t be sure, but the skeleton somehow felt a bit more bloodthirsty, and not just in appearance. Were undead influenced by their bodies? An interesting theory, and it would explain why Headless seemed slow even by undead standards.

To test this, Jerry de-animated and reanimated Shorty a few times. Nothing changed. The soul obviously remained the same, so he wasn’t “killing” him every time.

He then decided to test the limits of Shorty’s understanding. He ordered the skeleton to perform several tasks, increasing the complexity as he kept succeeding. As it turned out, undead—or at least Shorty—could guard a place, hunt cockroaches, and do any other simple task.

However, if any sort of initiative was required, they failed. For example, Shorty couldn’t for the love of him open the door until Jerry demonstrated how to use the doorknob. It took some time, but when the skeleton got the concept, he could then open the door without specific instructions. This proved that skeletons could learn, which was extremely important.

Then, Jerry de-animated and reanimated Shorty. The doorknob once again became his mortal enemy. That experiment showed undead lost their memories when de-animated, the same way they did when the bodies originally died. Except Boney. Jerry had to remember not to de-animate any of his more important, self-aware undead.

This brought into question the subject of souls. Were memories not part of the soul? And what was the soul, really? So far, Jerry had been too engrossed in the magic bonds holding everything together to pay it much attention. That would change now. It was knowledge time.

Therefore, Jerry cupped his chin and got to thinking. What happened when someone died?

He had killed things a few times using necromancy. He could use his magic to forcefully sever body and soul in small forest creatures. What happened was that the infinite tiny bonds connecting the soul to the body—the natural bonds, ones much more intricate than what he could create—were dissolved in the face of his magic. If the soul suddenly lost its connection to the body, it was natural for the latter to simply slump down and die, but what happened to the soul itself?

Jerry had no idea, but as much as he tried, he simply couldn’t inspect a soul. To his magic senses, it was an impenetrable ball of light in the core of every living creature.

He did wonder why the natural bonds between body and soul were so much more intricate than his, which seemed just good enough for the job. He soon reached a conclusion.

What he was doing was stringing a body and a soul together. He added rough tethers from the soul to important joints and from every bone to the next, creating an operational vessel for the soul to drive.

What the natural bonds did was intertwine body and soul on such a deep level that they practically became one entity. The two methods were leagues apart, and while Jerry wasn’t certain of the natural way’s benefits, there had to be some, and they ought to be massive.

After a few minutes, he decided to experiment with his killing ability, the one he decided to name Soul Severing. After all, if the body’s natural bonds were better than his own, maybe he could maintain some of them while killing a creature, saving himself time and energy later.

Unfortunately, after experimenting on a few nearby ants, that turned out to be impossible. The natural bonds were so perfect that they all crumbled together or not at all.

Jerry wasn’t discouraged. Theories and ideas kept darting around in his mind as if he’d been opened to a whole new world of knowledge. In the end, even though he didn’t make headway on his grandest questions, he did discover a few things.

The first was that souls got stronger the larger their body was—a nearby cockroach helped him compare against the ants. And, the stronger the soul, the harder it was to break the bonds and kill it through Soul Severing—which, incidentally, only had a range of a few feet.

The second piece of knowledge was that souls were somehow connected to the bodies on a different, much deeper level than what he could access. He knew this because he’d moved the bandit corpses here before reanimating them; the soul had obviously come along, and therefore had been stuck inside the body even though the bonds had been broken on death. It couldn’t be as simple as a fleshy prison. After all, souls were immaterial.

The third piece of knowledge was that, when he learned a lot of things at once, he needed some time to cool off.

Time for a break.

Standing up, Jerry stretched, finding himself sore.

He had no idea how long he’d spent experimenting, but it had to have been hours. He was mentally exhausted, so he decided to call it a day.

Exiting the tower alongside a significantly confused Shorty, Jerry saw that the moon had risen. Sharpening those bones had taken longer than he thought. No wonder he was exhausted.

He would eat some fox meat and go to sleep, but there was one important thing to take care of first. Boney and Headless had been tasked with building a fence and, apparently…

Wait a moment. That’s not a fence.

9

USING SHOES AS COINS

When Jerry exited the tower, he found himself staring not at a fence but a veritable wall.

A small part of a wall, at any rate.

When he said ‘fence,’ he’d meant sparse wooden stakes on the ground, maybe with a loose array of planks connecting them. It would be a barrier with little practicality, built for the sole reason of marking one’s territory.

However, Jerry had not given detailed instructions, and Boney had taken the task to heart. For the small part of the wall already constructed—barely nine feet in length—thick wooden stakes had been lodged in the ground in three-foot intervals. Tightly connected planks extended between them, blocking access and view from the outside while stretching to a height of only four feet, for now.

When Jerry saw them, Boney was busy painting the wall black—thank Desistos for Derek’s cart of tools—while Headless was chopping wood into rough planks and stakes. Boboar burst out of the forest, carrying a bunch of thick branches between his tusks, while Foxy was nowhere to be seen.

“Master!” Boney exclaimed as soon as he spotted the necromancer, putting his paintbrush down and sticking his chest out. “Your fence is under construction, Master!”

“Yahhh!” Headless made a wordless cry, saluting against his head which hung at chest height.

“Don’t lose your head…” Jerry muttered.

Boboar, too, squealed and rushed to Jerry’s side to be petted, dropping the wood he was carrying.

“Guys, that’s…” Jerry was lost for words, absent-mindedly rubbing Boboar’s skull.

“You probably had something simpler in mind, Master,” Boney said with pride, “but you deserve only the best! We refuse to give anything less!”

“Yahh!” Headless cheered again, all three workers looking at their master proudly.

Jerry glanced over all the work they’d put in for him. Even though they were undead, hence tireless, it was still touching.

“Good job, everyone!” he shouted back, eliciting another round of cheers. “This will take more time to be completed, but it doesn’t matter. Good work takes precedence. Just make sure to keep it at the present height, please. We don’t want to come off as too intimidating.”

“As you command, Master.” Boney bowed. Jerry smiled. He liked being a necromancer.

The night that followed was cold and windy, and Jerry did not feel tired anymore. The tower had a stove that doubled as a heater, and they had plenty of wood to burn.

He called his undead friends to the last floor, where the stove was located, and created a warm, homely atmosphere for them all. He grabbed a cup of alcohol—Derek had stashed a bottle in his cart of tools, bless that man—and some leftover fox meat, creating a feast. Only Jerry himself could partake in it, unfortunately, but the undead didn’t mind.

He then grabbed a thoroughly cleaned blanket from a random guard room and laid it over his legs, sitting on a sturdy wooden chair. Boboar lay next to him, the skeleton’s head at petting level, while Foxy lay on Jerry’s legs. When he moved her a bit, the bones weren’t painful. She was pretty light.

Boney, Shorty, and Headless all took up their own chairs by the fire, looking pleased. Jerry suspected they could not feel the comfortable heat, but their master’s pleasure and attention made them happy regardless.

They spent a few hours just sitting there, relaxing by the fire and enjoying each other’s company. Jerry spoke of stories and legends he knew, such as the time a giant moth swallowed part of the sun and became the moon, or the time he had been forced to run around the village naked on his birthday because the neighbors had stolen his clothes.

Jerry realized he missed home a bit, but not much. In all honesty, there was nothing much to miss there, and the nightmare of a life he’d led had extinguished any good feelings he might have otherwise harbored. Even his family was faint in his mind. He would probably visit them at some point, but for now, he was walking his own path, as all people should eventually do.

This was his home now.

Tom Boney joined in on the fun, speaking stories of his past life as a bandit, along with all the fun stuff that happened to bandits. They’d captured a traveling bard once and had him compete in a jokes competition with one of their gang, who was also a bard. The traveling bard won and was set free—without his valuables, of course.

Another time, a bandit had drunk so much that he’d tried to make out with a wooden log on which somebody had painted a woman.

Tom and Jerry laughed at the stories, while the rest of the undead shared in the mirth, even though they had trouble comprehending what was said. Headless even tried to play some music, rhythmically banging his chest with his head like a gong. It was a cute failure.

For the first time in sixteen years, in an abandoned guard tower, in front of a warm fire and surrounded by undead friends… Jerry truly felt at home.

The next day, Jerry decided it was time to visit the village again. Most of the housekeeping jobs were done, so he had to return Derek’s tools, plus he could buy the shoemaking equipment he needed. There used to be a shoemaker in the village a few years ago, as Derek informed him, and the mayor had stored his equipment away after he’d died. Jerry could buy it now and repay the village with his services.

Of his undead, Boney and Headless would be left behind to guard the place. They were hard at work making the wall, anyway.

Shorty, Boboar, and Foxy would follow Jerry. He didn’t intend for them to enter the village or meet any villagers, but they would be hidden nearby, just in case. After the last time his life had been threatened by Murdock, Jerry had grown a bit wary.

The village of Pilpen was a short hour’s walk away, and that time passed in a blink. Jerry was so used to walking for days on end that this short timespan didn’t even register.

Hiding the skeletons in a thick patch of bushes just outside the village, Jerry casually walked inside the settlement, pushing Derek’s cart. The villagers gawked at his arrival; whether they’d forgotten about him or expected him to run away after the incident with Murdock, he didn’t know, but nobody spoke to him. Jerry didn’t speak to anybody either, besides a few awkward good mornings.

He didn’t mind.

Whistling, he reached Derek’s home and knocked on the door, expecting the large hunter to appear. Instead, his daughter did; Holly, the girl that Jerry had saved from the bandits. She wore a pink dress this time, reaching all the way to her ankles.

“Hi,” Jerry said jovially. “How have you been, Holly?”

“Hi…” she replied. Her eyes darted from left to right, not finding any undead, and only then did she relax a bit. “I, uh… I’m good. Shocked, still. But good.”

“That’s great. If I saved you only to have you collapse later, that would be tragic.” He laughed, while Holly did not. Jerry realized his joke was mistimed. She was clearly shaken, and her wide-eyed stare made him uncomfortable.

“So,” he asked, “is your father home?”

“He’s out hunting.”

“I see.”

A short silence ensued.

“Well, I just came by to drop this cart and say hi. I’ll come by again before I leave the village, but if Derek still isn’t back, tell him he’s invited to my tower for drinks whenever he wants. He can bring whoever he wants to, as well.”

“All right…” she responded lamely, Jerry’s invitation clearly finding her hesitant.

“Well, have a nice morning,” the necromancer called out as he turned to leave. Seeing Holly afraid of him was sad, but what could he do? It would pass.

“Jerry?” she asked, making him turn around. She clenched her fists. “I’m… Thank you for saving me. I really appreciate it, I’m just a bit scared right now, okay? That’s all. I-I really do think you’re a nice person.”

Jerry smiled. “You’re welcome. It’s okay to take your time. Everybody feels weak occasionally. Just be you, be honest to yourself, and everything will be fine.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Thank you…”

“No problem. I got to go now. See you around, Holly!”

With a final smile, Jerry left, letting her puzzled eyes linger on his back. He walked through the tiny village, enduring the villagers’ hard stares. He whistled in return. If they wanted to look at him, he didn’t particularly mind.

Arriving at the largest house, he knocked on the door twice. A short tower rose from the back of the building, which also doubled as a church to Manna, the Goddess of Life. The door creaked open.

“Hello?” came a woman’s voice, and her eyes darkened as she took in Jerry’s form. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, quite uninvitingly.

He remembered her; this was Melissa, the mayor’s wife, who’d sided with Murdock at the village council. She was a beautiful, raven-haired woman with a glare that could pierce wood. A long green shift made of linen covered her, over which she donned a sleeveless woolen tunic secured at the shoulder with brooches. Two chains hung from these brooches, each with a key attached to its end. It was a convenient way to carry things, given that most people didn’t have pockets.

“Hi,” Jerry said. “I’m here for the mayor.”

“What for?” she asked sharply. He frowned. While Jerry was an easygoing person, he did not particularly enjoy being treated rudely.

“To buy the shoemaker’s equipment he has,” he replied. “Can I come in?”

“I guess you can,” she responded after a moment of hesitation. “But refer to me as mayoress, please.”

“Ah yes, a title that speaks of your abilities. It means you were chosen as the people’s leader, right?” It didn’t. She just happened to be the wife of that person. “I actually know a skeleton with an equally meaningful title.”

The woman stared daggers, and Jerry smiled pleasantly. Before she could respond, a rotund man walked into the room, wearing the tunic and leggings common to the people around here. His round eyes sparkled with spirit.

“Jerry!” he said, with an enthusiasm that was abandoned in short order when he noticed his wife’s murderous gaze. “May Mother Manna’s light shine upon you. How can I help you today?” he continued, noticeably more flatly.

“Hi there, Mayor. I’m interested in buying the shoemaking equipment that Derek told me you have.”

“Ah, yes, old Jerome’s. He had no children, so the village got it when he passed. I think it’s in the basement, somewhere… Would you enjoy some milk while I look for it?”

“Sure.”

“I was in the middle of weaving, unfortunately, so I cannot keep you company,” Melissa said. She then took off, leaving the two men alone in the room.

“She’s a busy woman,” the mayor, Ashman, said. He coughed into his hand, clearly embarrassed. “And a bit twitchy as of late. Come, let me fetch you a cup, and then I will have to trouble you to wait.”

“That is no problem. I enjoy letting time pass.”

The mayor led Jerry to a woolen chair which felt like heaven. It reminded him that he had to create one of these for himself. Ashman then poured Jerry a cup of milk and took off for a flight of stairs, heading downwards.

Jerry waited.

The mayor lived in quite the opulent house. Besides the shiny yellow sphere placed prominently above the fireplace—Manna’s symbol, though this one wasn’t actual gold—animal hides covered parts of the wooden walls, while random ornaments decorated the tables. Jerry assumed this extravagance was Melissa’s addition. Ashman seemed like a simple man, and Derek had informed Jerry that Melissa was the one who wanted them to be called mayor and mayoress.

This was Ashman—a simple, spirited man, but one weak of will. He was soft, agreeable, and friendly, or so it seemed. Jerry sighed.

The milk, however, was quite pleasant.

“There you go.” Ashman rose from the stairs. He carried a basket of tools in one hand and a long green apron, traditionally called a napron, in the other.

“The whetstone and buffet are missing,” he continued, referring to the three-legged stool that shoemakers used as a workbench, “but I trust you can craft your own. Old Jerome had them, of course, but somebody’s likely resting their feet on that buffet right about now. The knives and stitching tools should all be here.”

“At this time of the day, I doubt anybody’s resting. But that’s excellent, Mayor,” Jerry exclaimed with joy, examining the basket. “You have the complete Saint Hugh’s Bones!”

“Uh… Excuse me?”

“That’s the actual name for a shoemaker’s toolkit. It wasn’t a pun, I promise.”

“Okay. Then, yes, it should be quite complete. It was not upturned, so I reckon that everything is still inside.”

“Thanks, Mayor. Now, as for payment⁠—”

“You can simply repay us with your services,” Ashman cut him off. “These are useless to me anyway. A new shoemaker for the village is worth far more than these things.”

Jerry looked at the mayor’s feet, finding them clad in wooden shoes called clogs. Not the most comfortable coverings, but the best an untrained man could make himself.

“I’ll craft you a nice pair of goatskin sandals, Mayor,” Jerry said. “And one for your wife, too. Maybe that will honey her up.”

“Manna knows she needs it,” Ashman whispered, then laughed. “Thank you, Jerry. Know that the village appreciates your presence, even if we don’t always show it.”

“Yeah…” Jerry thought to the people outside and their glares. “In any case, I have to get going; there are still some things I need to acquire. Thank you for the milk. Feel free to visit me whenever; I have several extra beds. Maybe you can talk to Derek and come together?”

“When I find the time, I will certainly do so.” The mayor smiled again. “Here, have this goatskin as well. Melissa had bought some to make a new tunic, but she hasn’t gotten around to it in months. Herbalism is just too intriguing, it seems.”

“Herbalism is very useful,” Jerry agreed. He’d once tripped and fallen on a patch of nettle, and only the village’s herbalist could save him from the incessant itching.

“It is, though I wish it left her more time for our home,” Ashman spoke in a low volume, looking around to make sure Melissa wasn’t standing behind him. “Between you and me, she’s not very good at it. Thank Manna for Murdock.”

“Murdock?” Jerry raised a brow. “What does he have to do with this?”

“He’s our village herbalist. Melissa only grew interested last year. She goes to Murdock’s house weekly for lessons, though our resident wizard is perhaps not as good a teacher as she would have liked.”

“She goes to his house?” Jerry asked, wondering where exactly that was. Ashman’s was the largest house in the village. Would the haughty wizard live in anything smaller?

Ashman laughed. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not improper. Murdock fancies men.”

“Ah, I see,” said Jerry, who did not at all care about the wizard’s sexual preferences. “In any case, thank you, Mayor. I really should get going. Take care.”

“You, too, my friend. May the Wall hold forever.” Ashman walked him to the door. He jokingly added, “And no skeletons in town, you hear me?”

Thus, armed with Saint Hugh’s Bones, a folded green apron, and a batch of goatskin, Jerry walked to his next destination, the brewer’s house. He’d promised Derek some drinks, and he wouldn’t want to burden the man with bringing his own again.

Unfortunately, the brewer, an older man with an oily ponytail, refused to sell anything to Jerry. He did not consider shoemaking appropriate payment, and Jerry supposed the man didn’t like necromancers to begin with. Helplessly, he departed, heading for Derek’s house. With any luck the hunter would be back, and he would be able to buy some booze in Jerry’s stead.

However, as he approached Derek’s house, Jerry caught a man staring from the nearby tree line. He did not recall seeing this person before.

He was dressed in a green tunic and a leather vest, with an aggressive face and a sword on his hip. In fact, this man was dressed quite similarly to the bandits who⁠—

Oh.

The man opened his mouth and roared, “Attack!”

10

BONE DANCE

At the man’s command, eleven more bandits jumped out of the forest and ran toward the village. They weren’t far, only two hundred feet away. The distance would evaporate in no time.

Therefore, Jerry did the only sensible thing—he ran away, dropping what he was carrying and bolting for the village center. At the same time, he mentally ordered his skeletons to assist. A bandit raid was not something he wanted to face alone.

“Bandits!” he shouted.

The villagers noticed the approaching bandits and screamed in alarm. Several men drew weapons and rushed to the edge of the village to form a wall of swords—well… a flimsy fence. Several others ran away or froze in terror.

Jerry himself rushed behind the village warriors. Not only was he unarmed, but also a wizard. The front line was not his place in life.

When the bandits collided with the villagers, it would not be a pleasant sight. The former were better armed, better trained, and far more seasoned than the latter. The only reason these guys ever stood up was for their families, for their wives and children.

As the bandits were about to reach the village, a mighty oink resounded, and the gates of hell opened wide. Three monsters rushed out of the forest, heading for the village faster than the bandits ever could.

One was a massive monstrosity of bones in the shape of a wild boar, charging with the strength of a horse. It was unstoppable. On its back stood a skeletal form only vaguely humanoid. Its entire torso was missing, making its shoulders rest upon its waist. Most importantly, the thing had blades for fingers and razors for teeth, and its bone jaw cackled manically as they rushed for the bandits.

The last monster ran ahead of those two, drawing far less attention. It was shaped like a fox but made of bones.

The bandits stumbled, unable to process what they saw. The skeletons’ speed was great, and before the bandits could realize what was happening, the monsters were upon them.

For all their weapons, armor, and training, the bandits were not ready to meet Boboar’s charge. The large beast barreled right through them, sending two bandits flying like bowling pins. Boboar then rushed past the battle, unable to halt his sprint in time, but his back was now vacated.

Shorty had jumped off the double-boar and into the thick of the bandits. He did not know how to fight, that much was evident to Jerry, but the poor criminals couldn’t see it; all they saw was an abominable monstrosity made of blades and death. Shorty whirled in their midst, wreaking havoc but causing few casualties, while Foxy silently invaded them to spread swift death. Her claws and fangs shredded throats, chests, and limbs alike, the skeletal fox being an incarnation of fury at the ones who dared threaten her master.

The bandits screamed, but a sharp shout steadied their bodies.

“They’ve got a necromancer!” the leading bandit said, a short, wide man practically made of muscle. He must have been in his forties, if not older. “Don’t panic. As one!”

Jerry did his best to appear inconspicuous in the crowd that had formed. Despite that, the leading bandit stared him directly in the eye, as if he knew, or perhaps because Jerry had been the first person he saw. Jerry looked away and whistled.

Just as the leader was about to shout another order, Shorty fell on him, and the man was forced to draw his weapons and defend. He wielded twin axes, whirling them around in a hurricane that demolished Shorty. The poor skeleton was intimidating and deadly, yes, but weak in direct combat. Due to his lack of a torso, he was significantly weaker than a normal skeleton.

His only saving grace was the lack of target he presented, as he was essentially a mass of thrashing limbs.

While Foxy was fighting the still disoriented bandits, one of the leader’s axes bit into Shorty’s bone wrist, cutting it clean off. The skeleton, unable to feel pain, continued to fight ferociously, but his defeat was only a matter of time.

It was right then that the moving bone fortress—Boboar—returned for another round. He rushed straight at the bandit leader to defend his friend. The bandit was ready.

Disengaging from Shorty, the bandit leader faced Boboar’s assault, and at the last moment, jumped aside. The double-boar barreled through with a frustrated oink, unable to turn his massive body.

Boars were easy to dodge once you knew the trick.

The axe-wielder turned back to Shorty, smiling grimly. The remaining bandits, four in number, coordinated with each other and pushed Foxy away. Boboar was still struggling to turn.

Shorty lunged forth, fearless in his undeath. At the last moment, the bandit leader’s axe cleaved down, a sure strike to the skull.

It missed.

The bandit screamed and fell to the ground, holding his chest. A man walked out of the crowd, his right palm shining black.

“Leave Shorty alone, you bully.”

“What—” The bandit’s eyes were bloodshot as he turned, only to meet Shorty’s slap head-on. The result was not pretty.

“Alright.” Jerry sighed, dropping his arm. He was already sweating. This was the first time he tried Soul Severing on another person—the process of cutting the bonds between soul and body. He’d expected to fail, aiming only to distract the bandit, but it turned out he could apply debilitating pressure even if he couldn’t sever the bonds outright. Well, he knew now, and he also knew it was downright exhausting. The lack of proximity didn’t do him any favors either.

At least the rest of the bandits didn’t seem like the brightest bunch. In their shock, they failed to acknowledge the very definition of obvious approaching them from behind.

Boboar rammed into them in all his piggy glory, once again sending two men flying. Only two bandits were left standing, one of whom had the misfortune of meeting Foxy. The other was already running away, screaming, and Shorty once again jumped on Boboar’s back as they set to the hunt.

Right before the bandit reached the tree line, an arrow dived straight into his skull, killing him instantly. Derek walked out of the woods, bow taut, as the bandit collapsed.

“Are there any left?” he asked.

“Oh, hi Derek,” Jerry said, panting. “I came by earlier, but you were missing, so I left your cart with Holly. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Jerry.” Derek looked on in confusion. “What happened here?”

“A bandit attack,” the necromancer spoke as if it was the simplest thing in the world, “but we held them off.”

“I… Oh, gods.” Derek stepped past some corpses, shouting at the gathered villagers, “Is everyone okay?”

Silence came from behind Jerry, and he turned to look. What he saw was pure terror, but not for the bandits; it was directed straight at him. The necromancer almost stepped back from the beam of concentrated fear he received.

“What?” he asked. “I saved you.”

“Monsters…” came a voice from the back of the crowd, and a couple more repeated the word.

Jerry frowned.

“What are you people saying?” Derek stepped up. “Jerry just saved your asses!”

More silence met him, and a vein pulsed at the hunter’s temple.

“It’s all right, Derek.” Jerry sighed. “People are always afraid, but they will understand. I will show you”—he turned to the villagers—“that you don’t need to be afraid of me or my skeletons. We will not harm you; we will protect you and make you the loveliest of shoes.”

“As far as I’m concerned, this is stupidity at its finest.” Derek scoffed at the villagers. “Jerry protected you and your families, and you have the gall to look at him like that. Shame on you. And where the hell is Murdock? He’s supposed to protect us, too.”

“Well, I’m off,” Jerry said, picking up the goatskin, Saint Hugh’s Bones, and napron from the ground where he’d dropped them earlier. “Feel free to visit whenever, Derek, and bring anyone you want. Ashman and Holly are especially welcome.”

He stepped closer to the hunter, whispering a few more words, “But get some booze for me, please. The old man refused to give me any.”

“Are you sure, Jerry?”

“Yeah, I asked him twice.”

“Not that. Are you sure it’s okay? You saved the village. We must repay you, somehow.”

“That’s all right. The hospitality and assistance you’ve offered me, along with these tools”—he raised the shoemaker’s toolkit—“are more than enough compensation.”

He then thought better about it and pointed at the dead bandits. “Actually, can I have them, too?”

“The bodies and anything on them belong to you.” Derek nodded. “That is only right.”

“Nice. Ah, also, can I borrow your cart again? Without the tools this time. Hope it’s not too much to ask, but I cannot carry all these bodies otherwise.” Jerry scratched his head, feeling a bit pushy.

“Of course!” the hunter replied excitedly. “In fact, it would be my pleasure to help you carry them!”

“No, that’s fine. Boboar can pull it.”

“Very well. Come, let us unload the tools. And as for all of you”—he turned to the villagers, fury simmering in his eyes as he roared out, “what the hell do you think you’re still doing here? If you cannot properly express gratitude, get out of my sight!”

Standing a head taller than everybody else, and being an experienced hunter, Derek cut an imposing figure. One man still retorted against his aggressive attitude.

“Why are you shouting at us, Derek?” he said. “I didn’t see you doing much to help either. You only shot one arrow when the battle was already over.”

“Learn to behave before you can lecture me, boy,” the hunter replied roughly, locking eyes with the younger man. “Fuck off.”

The man defiantly held Derek’s gaze for a moment, clenching his teeth. Finally, he snorted as he looked away. The crowd dispersed. Only then did Derek look away.

“I’m sorry for what you had to see,” he told Jerry. “They can be a bit…”

“That’s all right. I understand. Let’s just get the bodies.”

Derek nodded, and the two of them got to work. A few minutes later, and with the assistance of the skeletons, all twelve bodies had been loaded, eight on the cart and four on Boboar’s back. The double-boar growled as he pulled the cart, which creaked under the weight.

“I’ll make you a new one if it breaks,” Jerry said as he took off. “Take care, Derek. May the Wall hold.”

“You too, my friend. You too. May it hold forever.”

He stayed there, unmoving at the edge of the village, watching Jerry strut off. Only after he disappeared behind the tree line did Derek release a deep, sad sigh.

Jerry was a good man. He did not deserve such treatment, especially after he risked himself to save everyone. Though he was dangerous and alien, and the villagers… did not take kindly to the alien. Derek was well aware of that. If only they were more open-minded, then maybe Holly’s mother would still be…

He shook his head, sending the thoughts away. What was done was done.

Derek could only hope this warm, friendly, genuinely good man called Jerry would manage to weasel into the villagers’ hearts.

Manna knows he deserves it. Derek sighed one last time before turning to head into the village. His home and daughter awaited. His daughter, Holly, for whom he could endure everything.

11

THE HILLBILLY SQUAD

The Kingdom of Escarbot is split from east to west by the Axel Ridge, a mountain range so large it defines the kingdom. To the west of Escarbot lie the Moonlight Kingdom, the land of merchants and wizards, and the Jewel Sea, named for the color its waters take in the summer. To the east, the Alabaster Kingdom, famed for its great explorers and mighty warriors, and especially for the famed Wyvern Riders of Nopelin.

South of the Three Kingdoms lies the Narrow Sea, and beyond it, the Sea of Sands, which the people of camels, fabrics, and spices call home. Finally, to the north, beyond the Wall of the Damned and the Black Belt, stretch the Dead Lands, the vast region occupied by the wild undead of Ozborne.

In this way, the small Kingdom of Escarbot is squeezed between sea and undeath, with its paltry borders separating two larger kingdoms. It is, in all regards, a land simple, barbaric, and untamed. Due caution is advised.

- An excerpt from the Atlas of Homerus, Second Edition, found on an unnamed corpse.

The hour-long walk was over in a blink, as always, and Jerry was once again facing his tower. He whistled. The distrust of the villagers did not get him down; it was only natural. In time, they would understand.

On the bright side, he had acquired a bunch of new bodies, soon-to-be buddies!

“Come on, Boboar,” he said happily, gesturing toward the body-filled cart. “Drop them.”

With a shrug, the double-boar skeleton tilted the cart, throwing the corpses on the dirt. Jerry had made the basement into his laboratory, but getting all these bodies down there would be messy. Stairs were the enemy of mankind. In the future, someone should definitely create magical ones that moved on their own.

Yes, that would be nice.

The necromancer bent down, staring at the pile of corpses at his disposal. Eleven of them, all in decent condition, minus some unimportant fleshy bits and broken bones from Boboar’s assaults.

Wait, eleven? Weren’t there twelve? One, two, three…

“Oh, Boboar, you lovable lump. You dropped one somewhere!”

Boboar lowered his massive head and snorted apologetically. Jerry laughed and petted him. “Don’t worry, you. A body up or down is no big deal. In fact, thank you for carrying them all here. You’re the best double-boar skeleton I have ever seen!”

Boboar oinked in happiness, gently pushing his head against Jerry’s hand.

“Hah, okay! Now”—he laughed, turning to the bodies and rubbing his hands—“what goodies should we make?”

“Someone with hammers for hands, Master,” Boney said. He and Headless had been building the fence, and they’d naturally noticed Jerry’s group approach. “It would save us quite some time.”

“An excellent suggestion, my dear butler!” Jerry whipped his head around. “But I have a better idea.”

Boney groaned. The necromancer reached inside the pile of bodies and, with a bit of effort, pulled out a bulky man. It was the bandit leader who had given Shorty and Boboar a lot of trouble, the one who wielded twin axes. The axes were present too.

“Oh, do I have plans for this one…” Jerry grinned, an evil glint in his eye. “It’s high time we made a double human skeleton. Isn’t that right, Boney?”

“I believe some extra working hands would be excellent, Master.”

“Fine.” Ηe rolled his eyes. “Here, have these.”

With some mental gymnastics, two skeletons tore their way out of their former bodies. They blankly stared at Jerry.

“Are any of you intelligent?” he asked. They looked on. “Alright, then, both of you follow Boney. He will tell you what to do. Work them well, Boney. Maintaining this many undead is quite taxing on my soul, so I’ll de-animate them tomorrow.”

The skeletal butler rubbed his hands evilly, as Jerry had done earlier. Jerry considered getting him some nice clothes the next time he visited Pilpen. Maybe a hat, too. “Not to worry, Master. I will work these two to the bone.”

Jerry flinched.

Cackling, Boney took off with only one of the new skeletons in tow. The other was temporarily tasked with carrying a few of the new corpses to the basement; he would join fence-building duty later. The fence would come along much faster now, and Jerry was satisfied. He turned to the corpse-carrying skeleton.

“Lead the way, Expendable Skelly. And you, Shorty, come along. I will fix that broken hand of yours.”

Filled with excitement, Shorty dragged his body to the basement, while the new skeleton hoisted the former bandit leader. That’s how it goes; the new guys get the chores.

Back in the basement, Jerry got ready for work. It was still early in the day.

The first order of business was fixing Shorty. He’d worked hard to protect him, and Jerry appreciated that. Therefore, grabbing the sliced-off hand bone, Jerry touched it to the end of Shorty’s forearm and created a soul tether that bound them together. This was the same magical application he’d used to create Boboar. Too bad it only worked on bones, or Headless would be Headful.

“There you go,” he said proudly. “Good as new.”

Shorty tried out his hand, waving it experimentally in the air. It worked as intended, and the skeleton cackled with joy before rushing upward, presumably to show Boney and Headless.

It was curious how quickly a skeleton formed the first signs of self-awareness. A day ago, Shorty had been unable to turn a doorknob. Now, he already possessed the concepts of pride, joy, and maybe even friendship?

Jerry’s wizard side told him to record everything for future study. His creative side told him to just get on with the next project, and he did just that. A double human skeleton sounded fun.

“I have plans for you. You are going to follow a noble craft, and you’re gonna be the very best like no one ever was,” he declared to the dead bandit leader, whose name he’d never gotten. Not that he particularly cared, but he was running out of bone-themed names.

“Oh, well.”

And so, Jerry got to work. Connecting two skeletons was a challenging endeavor. Creating Boboar had taken him months of research and experimenting. Even if he now knew the gist of it, adjusting his knowledge to human skeletons would take some time.

Fortunately, like most good guys, Jerry wasn’t afraid of hard work.

The hours flew by as one attempt followed another. Jerry discovered that the bipedal nature of humans made several aspects of the project different compared to boars, but he relished the challenge. Night came and went without Jerry realizing it, and the next day found him once again bent over his workbench, connecting small bones over small bones.

Just like that time when he’d spent six months wandering the forests, time lost its meaning. It flowed freely like sand between his fingers, and he let it, relishing in the mindless, fruitful labor.

His attempts were only interrupted when Boney stepped into the basement.

“Excuse me, Master,” he said, and Jerry looked up. His eyes sported black bags underneath. He wasn’t sure, but he suspected he’d missed a night’s sleep. Maybe two.

“What is it, Boney?”

“There are some people here to see you. I thought it wise not to kill them before letting you know.”

“Kill them?” Jerry raised a brow. “We don’t kill people, Boney. We’re the good guys. If anything, perhaps we should invite them in for some milk and cookies, though we don’t have any. No matter, I’m sure we can treat them to something.”

“I would suggest a swift and painful death, Master, but tea would be acceptable too. Foxy brought some leaves the other day. I could try brewing them.”

“Excellent suggestion, as expected of my undead butler.” Jerry straightened up, his spine cracking. “Ouch. Yeah, I guess a break will be good. How long was I working for, Boney?”

“Three and a half days, Master,” echoed the butler’s voice, already gone from the basement.

Jerry followed soon after, leaving the new project as it was. He was almost there; soon, their little group would have a new addition. How nice.

As he walked toward the door, Jerry realized he was completely spent. It wasn’t just the exhaustion either; there was a deeper kind of weariness, as if something vital to him was currently strained.

Ah! I forgot the two new skeletons. Boney better have gotten some work done.

However, the moment he saw his visitors, his exhaustion was gone. It wasn’t Derek, as he expected, nor was it the mayor.

Jerry was a villager through and through, but not all villagers were the same. He had only been to a town once or twice, and the extent of his education was learning to read, write, and count to a hundred. Despite that, he practically oozed class and elegance when compared to the people he found glaring at his undead.

There were eight of them, all wearing leather armor and well-made but badly maintained leather boots. Swords were in their hands, but that was unimportant. What was more notable was the absolute hillbilly-ism of these men.

They each lacked a couple of teeth, held their swords like shovels, and had a sense of permanent incomprehension stuck to their dirty faces. They were hunched, rough, and currently staring at Headless and his chest-level head like a particularly nasty enigma. Jerry was impressed. Had a rival village come to compete for his shoemaking services? Why the swords, though?

In front of the eight hillbillies was another person; a gruff-looking man with a clenched jaw, dressed in metal armor and wielding a spear. The nine of them were currently facing off against the fence builders, ready to dice his lovely undead apart or die trying. At least the wall itself was coming along nicely, now circling almost half of Jerry’s tower.

“Hey there,” Jerry said, drawing their attention. “I’m Jerry, and I’m not open to new orders at the moment. Is there any other way I can help you?”

“You’re a necromancer,” said the gruff, bearded man, confirming he was the leader.

“That’s only a hobby. I’m also a professional shoemaker—did you not read the sign?” He pointed to the wooden sign in front of the fence, which indicated this place as a shoemaker’s workshop. “By the way, you should probably have Billies one through eight sheathe their weapons. What they’re doing can prove to be quite unhealthy.”

“Billies one through eight?” The man looked confused. “Are you talking about my squad? None of them are called Billy. They are Rudolf, Dasher, Prancer⁠—”

“I’m sure my master would love to memorize eight minion names,” Boney’s voice trailed over from one of the upper floor windows, where he was preparing tea. Looking up, Jerry saw the butler’s head peeking out the window.

The armored leader was taken aback. “It can talk?”

“It has a name,” Boney said, “and it can also do many other things with its mouth, which your mother is intimately familiar with.”

“Let’s not antagonize these nice gentlemen yet, Boney,” Jerry said. “I think they’re just confused. This is no way to ask for new shoes.”

“Yah a shoemaker?” One of the Billies narrowed his eyes. “You liah. We knaw your kind. What kinda necromanca make shoes?”

“I have to make a living, don’t I?”

“Can’t you devour virgins or something equally evil?” the commander interceded.

“No,” Jerry replied. “I know how this looks, but I’m actually a good guy!”

“Good guy? A necromancer?”

“To the bone!”

The men looked on blankly.

“Okay, that was my bad,” Jerry said. “I guess Boney got to me. You’ve met him already, right? My undead butler.” They stared. “The talking skeleton,” he added.

Understanding dawned on the commander. Jerry smiled as he continued, “So, care to come in? I have some nice tea. I mean, it might not be nice, it’s just some smelly leaves my pet fox found in the forest, but all tea is nice in good company.”

“I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing in this place, necromancer”—the commander leveled his sword at Jerry, which was very rude indeed—“but know that if you harm one hair of the kingdom’s people or its forests, you will be crucified.”

“I didn’t know forests had hair, but I do not intend to harm anyone, my good sir.” Jerry smiled again. “And speaking of it, who are you?”

“Captain Reymond of the Milaris Royal Guard.” The bearded man struck his chest with an armored fist. Jerry knew Milaris to be the city nearest Pilpen. “And these men are under my command. We are here to man the kingdom’s guard post—the one you have infested.”

“What, this?” Jerry looked back. “But this is my tower.”

“It is not. It is the kingdom’s guard post.”

“Really? Well, I was given this tower by the village of Pilpen, so you might want to bring it up with their mayor. He’s a nice guy, though his wife is a bit difficult.”

“A village does not have the right to transfer ownership of kingdom property.”

“Well, it’s mine now.”

“That is unacceptable.” Reymond leveled his stare at Jerry. Jerry stared right back. Suddenly, Reymond realized that confronting an unknown necromancer might be quite unhealthy indeed. He lowered his sword. “I apologize for any confusion caused by our absence, but I have to ask you to evacuate, sir.”

The man’s disdain was clear by the way he spat out the last word, but Jerry did not particularly care. “Well, this is going to be a little difficult.” He scratched his head. “I mean, I don’t really want to steal your guard tower, but don’t you think you should visit your buildings a bit more frequently? This place had been left unattended for a year. It was a wreck. I’ve cleaned it, tidied it up, and built a lovely little laboratory in the basement along with a good, strong fence.”

“A laboratory?” The captain’s gaze darkened.

“That’s right. I am fine with leaving if the tower truly is yours, but I should be compensated and assisted in my relocation. Do you happen to know of any other conveniently abandoned guard towers nearby?”

“What? Kingdom property is not for necromancers to occupy!” The captain fumed. “I will have to ask you to depart immediately. I will also have to ask you to unsummon all your undead minions and allow us to bury them after cleansing them with holy water.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to,” Jerry replied truthfully.

The conversation fell in a lull, for which Jerry was relieved. They weren’t very cooperative. He needed to think.

As he’d said to the man, he really didn’t want to steal another person’s tower. He’d feel pretty bad if somebody stole his tower, so why force that feeling on others? On the other hand, he really didn’t want to leave his new home. He’d already gotten cozy!

Oh, what do I do?

In any case, Jerry didn’t want to intrude. He liked this tower, but if it really belonged to someone else, staying here wasn’t right.

Fortunately, at the last moment, a savior arrived in the form of an undead butler.

“Excuse me,” Tom Boney said, stepping out of the tower with a tea tray in hand, “but I happened to overhear. As a matter of fact, this place used to belong to the Escarbot Kingdom, but it has now been conquered by a foreign kingdom.”

“Conquered?” The captain’s eyes bulged. “What?”

“Indeed.” The skeleton nodded. “Currently, this place belongs to the newly founded Kingdom of Shoemakery and Undeathly Shenanigans. The SUS Kingdom, for short.”

“What?” said Reymond.

“What?” said Jerry.

“Indeed, indeed.” Boney nodded again. “I clearly remember the day my master founded his glorious kingdom. We are small now, but we will certainly grow stronger in the future! If fate permits, we might even become a kingdom with two guard towers!”

“What?” Captain Reynold spread his arms wide, sword and all. “You can’t just make your own kingdom!”

“We can and we did,” Boney stated. “In fact, you are currently intruding on our territory, gentlemen. Are you trying to instigate a war? Can you really shoulder that decision for the entire Kingdom of Escarbot?”

“What war?” The captain pointed at the skeleton. “You are instigating a war! You took our tower!”

“We took our tower, but that’s in the past. Let’s not reignite old rivalries.”

“What old—You skeletal clown!” the captain shouted angrily as he stomped his boot and looked around. Besides the annoying skeleton, two more were staring at him, along with an axe-wielding, headless zombie. And what was that? A child skeleton? One with oddly long limbs and sharp fingers?

A boar skeleton had also appeared from the forest at some point, ominously staring them down, and on its back was the skeleton of a fox. Both were drenched in dried blood, and the sheer enmity that radiated from this small army of undead was overwhelming. Crimson sparks burned deep in every undead’s eye sockets.

Moreover, behind everyone else stood the necromancer himself, a man that Captain Reymond couldn’t see through. Was this a battle they could win?

How many of his men would he need to sacrifice?

“Very well,” he relented. “I will call my superior here, and then you will see what the kingdom does to those who mock it. Men! We return!”

Obediently—almost too obediently, in fact—the hillbillies retreated at a brisk pace. Before a minute had passed, the nine of them had already disappeared into the tree line.

“What weird people…” Jerry muttered. “Don’t you think so, Boney?”

“Indeed, Master, for them to pick a bone with us. And unfriendly, too.”

“You know, you’re quite eloquent for a former bandit.” The necromancer raised a brow. “What gives?”

“The previous Tom grew up in Milaris, Master. He was smart and educated, but his parents’ expectations weighed a bit too heavily on him. A shame he decided to become a bandit.”

Jerry nodded.

“By the way, Master, what should we do with the tea?”

“Well, it’s brewed now, and I’m frankly quite exhausted. Let’s drink it ourselves. No, wait; can you even drink tea?”

“Certainly, Master.” Boney laughed. “I so like tea. Its warmth runs bone-deep!”

12

AXEHAND AND ELENA

After the soldiers were gone and the tea was drunk—or poured through one’s ribcage—Jerry went to sleep. He dreamt about being a cow and chewing on grass all day long while watching carriages pass by. He’d enjoy being a cow.

Come morning, he rose from bed, stretched, had some fruits and a cup of tea for breakfast—he still didn’t know what leaves these were, but he enjoyed them a lot—and headed back to his laboratory. His project was almost done, and soon, his lovably undead team would have a new addition.

He had de-animated the two latest skeletons before going to sleep. They were fine workers, but his soul was getting tired. The upkeep of human skeletons was no joke.

Once again, time flew by. Morning turned into noon, which turned into afternoon, and it was only as the sun touched the far-off mountains that Jerry took a step back, pridefully gazing at his new creation.

It was a human skeleton, but with double the trouble. Bones were stacked on bones, some parts enhanced more than others, forming a careful balance of weight and strain. It wasn’t the most complicated of tasks, as most things were handled by very convenient magic, but it was still challenging, and he wasn’t too sure he had succeeded.

There was only one way to find out.

“Rise,” he whispered, willing the soul trapped inside the skeleton to bond with it in crude yet elaborate ways. The skeleton shivered. It moved.

“Yes!” Jerry screamed. “It’s alive!”

The skeleton rose in all its undeathly glory. The bandit it was built upon was short and bulky. This skeleton kept the bulky part but had largely grown in height, towering an entire head over Jerry. As counterintuitive as it seemed, extra height was the way Jerry had found to stabilize the extra weight.

This was not the full extent of the transformations that the extra bones had caused. The skeleton was still vaguely humanoid, but the extra bones had given it a bulkiness which misled the human eye into considering this skeleton muscular.

It was terrifying. But wait! There’s more.

As the two skeletons had been combined, so had their souls, creating an odd soul with random parts strengthened or weakened. Jerry had a feeling that this guy’s mind would be slower than most, though any other effects were hard to estimate. The same thing had happened to Boboar’s soul back when he made it, and though he was more experienced now, the added complexity of human souls made the future impenetrable.

Despite its lacking mind, the skeleton lowered its gaze to look at its hands, at least, where its hands should be. Because, of course, Jerry had done some customization.

Where there used to be hands, there were now two axeblades, as if this was the skeleton of a particularly barbaric pirate captain. It looked at its hands, then back up at Jerry.

Jerry admired his new creation. A tall, wide, lumbering brute with axeblades for hands and clean white bones which seemed a bit too dense. Jerry could even imagine black flames burning in its deep, empty eye sockets. It would be glorious. And he intended to let this skeleton loose, unleash it on the targets it was built to destroy, slashing and hacking frenziedly until nothing remained standing.

Yes, this would be glorious.

“Welcome, Axehand, my strongest creation!” said the necromancer. He laughed manically. “You are going to be the world’s best lumberjack!”

Axehand grunted.

“Maybe not the brightest lumberjack”—Jerry patted his shoulder, smiling warmly—“but that’s okay. I’m not too bright either; not everybody needs to be smart. Welcome home, buddy.”

Axehand grunted happily, and Jerry led him outside to brag.

As soon as Boney caught sight of Axehand, he froze in place. Jerry would have sworn his bones shivered in excitement.

“My bones are shaking, Master,” the butler said. “This is amazing! Such a warrior, a monstrosity, a fierce, unmatched killer! We can protect you now!”

“This is Axehand,” Jerry happily introduced the new addition, who grunted in consent, “and he is our newest lumberjack.”

Boney’s head turned so quickly that Jerry feared for his spine’s integrity. “Our what?”

“Our lumberjack.” Jerry stuck his chest out. “I noticed that Headless was having some trouble with cutting wood. He’s a good boy, but his head is just not where it’s supposed to be. Anyway, Axehand will take over the woodcutting now, so you and Headless can focus on fence-building.”

“That is… Pardon me, Master, but I must have misheard. Did you say that the ultimate avatar of your rage and hatred toward the world, the pinnacle of your skills, the one destined to bring terror, death, and undeath upon your innumerable enemies… is a lumberjack?”

“Yeah.” Jerry tilted his head in confusion. “I thought it would be obvious. He has axes for hands, if you didn’t notice.”

“Oh, mighty Desistos, why do you do this to me?” Boney raised his hands at the sky. “Fine. Axehand, go chop wood.”

Axehand grunted in disapproval.

“Axehand,” Jerry said, “Boney may seem weird, but he’s a good guy, deep down. He is also the butler and caretaker of our home, so listen to him, please.”

Axehand grunted in agreement and took off toward the forest. He entered the tree line. Seconds later, a man’s terrified screams cut through the silence.

“Oh, come on!” Jerry sighed. “Who is it again? Did the Billies come back?”

Two forms jumped out of the woods. One was Derek, who seemed pale, and the other was the mayor, who was screaming harder than Holly had when cornered by the bandits.

“Oh! Hey guys!” Jerry waved at them. “I see you met Axehand!”

“That abomination is yours?” Derek shouted. “What the hell, Jerry?”

“Axehand is no abomination.” Jerry frowned and crossed his arms. “He’s a good boy. He’s currently hard at work as a lumberjack.”

Meanwhile, the mayor dove and groveled at Jerry’s feet, clutching a stalk of wood nettle in one hand and a yellow ball in the other, begging to be spared.

It took some time to convince him that Axehand was not, in fact, out to eat him. Eventually, he took the hint, and Derek apologized to Axehand for calling him an abomination, on Jerry’s suggestion. He insisted that the undead grow like children, and that making them feel safe and wanted is important.

Sometime later, the three men were huddled on the tower’s roof, sitting on wooden chairs and sipping some tea. The mayor had donned a blanket around him, still shivering.

“Sorry for the fright.” Jerry scratched his head. “Perhaps I should have checked before unleashing Axehand into the woods.”

“That would have been nice.” Derek nodded. “Make sure to send him in the other direction next time. An actual lumberjack might see him and have a heart attack.”

“Will do.”

“I’ve actually been wondering,” continued the hunter, leveling an intensely curious stare at Jerry. “These undead of yours, they seem… obedient. Peaceful. Hell, that talking skeleton made a paltry attempt at humor earlier. They aren’t supposed to be like that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jerry looked at the sky. “I suspect that my undead are affected by my nature. Boney is funny and relaxed, but when I asked him, he said he wasn’t like that while alive. I don’t know. What I do know is that they’re good people. They won’t cause any problems.”

“Not on purpose, maybe. I believe you. But I fear that the villagers will never accept you and your skeletons…” Derek sighed, taking another sip. “They’re petty and close-minded. You saw it; even after you saved their lives, they looked at you as an enemy. Were they not afraid, they would have risen against you.”

“It’s natural.” Jerry shrugged. “The undead seem terrifying. They will understand, in time.”

“I don’t know.” Derek shook his head. “Take Holly. She’s my daughter, and yet, she is very scared of you. Even though you saved her, she shivers at any mention of you or the undead. She wakes up at night screaming. She struggles to focus, and she’s afraid of entering the forest again, not so much because of the bandits, but mostly because of you.”

“But the bandits tried to harm her. I saved her.”

“And yet, it’s you that she fears. Bandits are a part of life, Jerry. You are not, at least not according to common sense.”

The necromancer fell silent.

“That makes me sad,” he said eventually. “But there’s nothing I can do about it. Those who can accept me will accept me, and those who cannot, will not. That will be enough.”

“I pray that it is.” Derek leaned back.

“Speaking of Holly,” Jerry asked, changing the subject, “out of curiosity, why does she keep wearing dresses? Aren’t they inconvenient?”

Derek sighed the sigh of a man about to explain a tiresome subject.

“They are, and very unfit for Pilpen, too. My little girl is obsessed with the city life… She wants to go to Milaris. What can I do? If she doesn’t want to stay here, I won’t force her. However, I have given her a condition; before we move, she has to learn herbalism properly. The world is a harsh place, and I will not take my daughter to Milaris without the skills to make a living.”

“Does she agree?”

“No.” The hunter chuckled. “Maybe that’s why her progress is snail-paced. She thinks I’m being too cautious, but she’s only a child. She doesn’t know the world as I do. If she shows up unprepared, it will grab her and squeeze her dry for everything she’s got—as it will do to you, if you don’t manage to blend in with the villagers. What do you think, Ashman?” He turned to the mayor.

The sun was falling behind the mountains now, painting the sky red, but the three men weren’t worried; they had already agreed to stay overnight, much to Ashman’s original dismay.

“I think it will be difficult,” he muttered. “Even my own wife has grown disgruntled lately. I fear it’s Murdock’s influence. She’s been learning herbalism from him for some time now, and his thinking has started to rub off on her. Like teacher, like student.”

“Murdock isn’t a very agreeable man.” Jerry nodded.

“He is not,” Ashman agreed. “He’s a rough case; authoritative, stubborn, arrogant. But the village needs him. With the bandits nearby…”

“I can protect you. Just let me station Axehand and Shorty as a patrol. I doubt any bandit would dare challenge them.”

“That could never happen.” The mayor shook his head. “They will not rely on you, Jerry. I know my villagers. Even when Elena was here, they⁠—”

“Hey.” Derek frowned.

“Oh.” The mayor blinked. “Sorry, I thought⁠—”

“It’s fine.” He waved it off, turning to Jerry. For a long moment, the hunter remained silent, considering his next words. Finally, he sighed.

“Elena was my wife when fate brought us here. We were from far away, originally, hailing from the Sea of Sands. Ever heard of it?”

“Not really.”

“It’s in the south; a land of sand and camels and spices and colorful, flowing fabrics,” he said, his nostalgia evident. His eyes were filled with memories as he looked down. “Fate brought us to these lands when Holly was only six. That was ten years ago. We met Ashman by chance, so we chose to settle here. The villagers were wary of us, as we were strangers, but we didn’t mind. They’d come around in time, we thought, and they did eventually. The problem was, that same year…”

His eyes darkened. “Elena got sick. Murdock wasn’t part of this village yet, so there was no herbalist, no doctor. Nobody could help. The snow had fallen, and I couldn’t travel to seek help. She spent a winter in bed and passed away just before the first snow melted.”

Ashman sat in knowing silence, sipping on his tea with sober eyes, while Jerry listened. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Jerry said.

“It’s okay.” The hunter waved a hand. “That was ten years ago. I’ve grown used to solitude since then, and Holly has grown into a beautiful young woman. I’m just trying to say that while Elena was sick, the village did not help us. Nobody came to keep Holly company when I was gone for hours or days on end, hunting. Nobody boiled soup or tea for us, nobody gave us food, nobody came to help clean our home. Not even Melissa. She warmed up to us later, but it was too late. That winter, I had to take care of a bedridden wife, a young daughter, and a house all by myself. Only Ashman was there for us, but how much can one man do?”

He took a deep breath before continuing. “I couldn’t handle everything, obviously. We had to skimp on wood, spending some nights shivering. We had to eat little, pour more water into our soup. I was but one man, and I could not take care of my family. Perhaps that was why Elena eventually succumbed. If the village had been quicker to accept us, if they had helped… or if I was stronger… perhaps spring would have come to my home.”

He stewed in silence.

“I see…” Jerry looked down.

“Yes, you see.” Derek gave a frank stare at Jerry. “We weren’t necromancers. If even we were not accepted, you have a hard task ahead of you, my friend.”

“But I will persevere.” The necromancer smiled sadly. “I like this place, and I have decided to make it my home. Unless the Billies come back, of course, but never mind that. In any case, I will persist. One year, three, or five, it makes little difference to me. Time has lost its meaning. Now, the days simply come one after the other, slipping through my fingers so quickly I cannot keep up. Before I know it, ten years will have passed, and my undead household will be filled with the warmth of visitors.”

“I wish that upon you, my friend.” Derek smiled, while Ashman nodded, too.

“Jerry,” Ashman said, “I’m sorry if I’m being too forward, but your words made me curious. What exactly is your story? What brought a man like you to a little village like ours?”

“The same thing that brought Derek,” Jerry said, sipping on his tea. “Fate.”

“Fate.”

“There’s no better word for it. Yours was the tenth village I visited, and you would have turned me away like all the others if I didn’t happen to save Holly from those bandits. It was blind chance.”

Ashman looked like he wanted to say something, but he hesitated. “Didn’t you have a home before?”

“I kind of did. Another village, probably far away from here, where I wasted the best years of my life suppressing my nature as a necromancer. It didn’t work. It was six months ago that I just couldn’t take it anymore, and my magic burst out, and I ran into the forest. I lived as a hermit for a while, practicing my art in solitude, then decided to look for a new home where I would be accepted. You know what happened next.”

Neither Derek nor Ashman knew anything about magic. Jerry could feel them itching with curiosity, but he was glad they didn’t ask.

“What about your family?” Ashman asked in a weak voice.

“This is my family.”

The other two men nodded. “Enough with the sad talk,” Derek said, raising a tea-filled cup. “Let’s drink! Not this stuff, obviously—it’s bitter. But the night is young, and the alcohol I brought won’t drink itself!”

Jerry laughed, the heavy atmosphere dissipating into joy. “Fine then. Let’s see just how much booze the people of Pilpen can hold!”

13

JERRY’S PROUDEST POSSESSION

Brad grumbled. When three men disappeared near that puny village, Pilpen, he’d assumed they’d run away. It was natural. What would a handful of villagers do to three hardened men? Feed them to death?

Therefore, he’d reported his suspicions to the big man, Jericho himself.

Now, the twelve-man-strong task force they’d sent to this puny village of Pilpen had not returned. Something was up. And that something meant that Brad’s earlier assumption, the one he had reported, had been mistaken.

So, naturally, Brad had been tasked with finding out what the hell was going on. Perfect. Just he and two random bastards sent to investigate something that had killed twelve strong men, Lom included. That man’s axes had been fearful.

Brad was a smart man. He knew they could not bandit their way out of this one. No, no, Brad knew what he’d do; play it safe. Keep things peaceful.

The two idiots under his command were dense as logs, but he’d convinced them to hide their bandit insignias and take off their green robes, leaving only a set of nondescript pants called hoses.

Then, he’d taken the lead, much to his own chagrin. It couldn’t be helped—the other two would be useless in anything that did not involve swinging stuff around and bashing heads in. Perhaps this was why they’d been assigned this suicide mission with him, and the idiots were even happy about it.

The three of them now lurked in the bushes close to the village, waiting for someone to come. Keeping the two idiots silent was a challenge.

Eventually, someone did show up.

“Shush!” Brad brought a finger to his lips, and the idiots shushed.

A girl approached. She was blonde and young, and beautiful, dressed in a green dress and carrying an herb basket. Her gait was hesitant, and her eyes darted around. She was afraid. Vulnerable.

Brad grinned for more than one reason. They’d planned to infiltrate the village or kidnap someone, but this might be even more fun.

“Stay right here. If you make a sound, I will tear your pitiful throats out,” he whispered to his men, treating them like the garbage they were. Following that, he stepped out of the bushes, pretending he hadn’t noticed the girl. She froze, and, as if only just noticing, he turned his gaze at her.

“Oh,” he said, smiling warmly. “Hello.”

The girl stared.

Brad was aware of how he looked. With his blue eyes and blond hair—he even bathed regularly—he was handsome. He worked out daily, doing exercises that the others disdained. They didn’t make him that much stronger, but they did make his body more enticing. Hard abs, proud chest, and muscles bulging just enough to be attractive.

Greatly aware he was a narcissist, he didn’t actually mind. Everyone deserved their vices. Since the gods had made him handsome, why not capitalize on that?

The girl ogled at his appearance. Currently, he also happened to be shirtless, and he put on his most charming smile.

“Did the cat bite your tongue?” He laughed gently.

She blushed. Brad had to try hard to suppress his grin. He discreetly brought a hand behind his back and signaled for his men to remain hidden. Young girls were easy to sway; find their buttons, promise them the world, and they’d soon be on all fours in front of him. Being extraordinarily handsome helped, too.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

“What’s your name, beauty?”

She looked down. “Holly,” she said timidly, loosening her grip on the basket.

The night had been pleasant. The booze flowed freely, and the starlight was enchanting, even if the winter’s cold had already begun to creep in. It was late November, and wintertime was at the door.

Atop Jerry’s tower, the three men laughed and drank. Jerry realized he had a strong belly, so he just drank more. He didn’t remember everything from the night, but he did remember the mayor making a rather personal request.

“Say, Jerry…” He slung an arm over the necromancer’s shoulders, nearly causing them both to fall off their chairs. “You necromancers deal in life, too, right?”

“Sure thing, Ash-dude. What about it?”

“Say”—he hiccupped, breath smelling of booze—“Melissa and I have been trying to have a child for years, but it’s just not working.” He hiccupped again. “I think I’m sterile.”

“Sterile?” Jerry squinted, struggling to sober up.

“Yeah, and since you do life, and I cannot make life, apparently”—he looked down, suddenly sad—“I was just wondering if, you know… Maybe you can make me a life pill or something. Get the little Ashman down there working, you know?”

“Bwahaha!” Derek burst into laughter, pointing at the mayor. “Little Ashman!”

“You—hic—be quiet!” Ashman threw him his clay cup. “It’s a figure of speech!”

“It’s alright, not everyone needs to be big,” slurred Jerry.

“Bwahaha!” Derek fell to the floor.

“No!” The mayor was incensed. “I am not⁠—”

“I don’t think I can do that.” Jerry shook his head. “I can maybe fix broken bones, but that’s the extent of my healing powers. Sorry. Can’t Murdock help?”

“That’s why we—hic—called him over in the first place,” the mayor replied. “But he’s useless! And now Melissa is sad! At least he liked our village and decided to stay, though that’s—hic—weird. What’s there to like? He could be rich in Milaris. Wizards are weird, you included.”

“Damn, man, that sucks.” Jerry grabbed Ashman’s shoulders. “I’m sure it will all work out in the end. Unless it doesn’t, of course, but nothing you can do about that. Have you considered that maybe Melissa is sterile instead of you?”

“No, he—hic—he examined her. It’s not her. It’s me. He, Murdock, said it’s my fault,” the mayor spoke heavily, every word clearly bringing him pain. “That’s why she’s studying herbalism… She wants to find the right medicine and have a baby. She loves children, that’s why she sometimes envies other wo— Oh!” He grabbed his mouth. “Hic! Don’t tell her I said that! Anything!”

“My lips are sealed,” Jerry said, while Derek was only now recovering from his previous streak of mirth. For all his roughness, the man was particularly quick to laugh.

“I don’t have a wife, you don’t have a daughter, Melissa is even helping Holly a lot with herbalism,” Derek managed to mutter. “Maybe the two of us should just marry each other and let them be—Bwahaha!”

“Fuck you!” Ashman tried to throw his cup at the hunter, but nothing left his hand. He remained thoroughly puzzled, staring at his empty hands before realizing he’d already thrown the cup earlier. Derek’s roaring laughter shook the tower’s walls, filling it with warmth.

“Oh,” the hunter said in alarm, his laughter abruptly dying down. His eyes widened. “Oh!” he exclaimed again, rushing downstairs. Ashman frowned, then his eyes widened as well, and he followed with a squeal of his own.

Derek and Ashman were struck by swiftly liquidating intestines, forcing them to drunkenly run to the cold woods every few minutes. The rest of the night was filled with pooping, wiping, and loud cursing. It’s incredible how blasphemous a priest’s words could become when drunk and in bowel-cleaning mode.

Jerry found it funny at the time, though, in hindsight, it probably wasn’t. This was a great reminder that he was immune to disease, being a necromancer, and that the tea he safely consumed wasn’t necessarily as safe for others. Still, the existence of a convenient laxative was good to know.

Boney, who had joined them for the booze but wasn’t speaking much, couldn’t stop laughing. At some point, Jerry decided that the night had dragged on enough and that his friends would manage by themselves, so he went to sleep.

This time, he dreamt about being a toad, catching flies and munching on them all day long. It was a peaceful dream. It got even better when his diet turned into mosquitoes. He disliked mosquitoes. They deserved to be eaten.

Dawn found Jerry awake and with an annoying headache, but he supposed that was only natural; it was his first time drinking like that in a long while. Derek and Ashman had barely managed to catch a few winks of sleep between toilet breaks, but those had fortunately abated after a couple of hours. They both slept on their stomachs in a random room on the ground floor.

Jerry considered feeling bad for not staying up with his guests, but, well, he didn’t. At least they had Boney to keep them company. His arguable bone puns were certainly great consolation for their pain.

Poor them.

With that in mind, Jerry did have Boney prepare them all some breakfast in the form of fruits and vegetables. He even added a few pieces of leftover fox meat from yesterday; Shorty was a surprisingly effective hunter.

And, until the other two guys woke up, Jerry had a different plan in mind. He would create the one thing he’d wanted for many days now, the most important piece of furniture he could own. He’d desired this since he experienced it in Derek’s house.

A heavenly soft chair.

Jerry got to work; snatching a few of the rough planks Boney and Headless had prepared for the fence, he nailed them into the shape of a chair, only broader, deeper, and overall larger. He then proceeded to the tower’s warehouse.

Besides the goatskin he’d use for shoes, the mayor had also gifted him a long piece of soft wool. Jerry grinned.

Slicing the wool into smaller pieces, he nailed it to the large chair frame, eventually creating his most precious property: the heavenly soft chair of his dreams. With a smile full of pride, Jerry placed it on the third floor, gazing upon the chair in all its fluffy glory.

It was perfect.

So perfect, in fact, that he almost took a seat. At the last moment, Jerry stopped himself. As much as he wanted to try it out, he knew that, once he sat, he would instantly fall in love and be unable to stand up again for the near future.

Therefore, with a final, longing gaze and a promise to enjoy it very soon, Jerry reluctantly made his way back downstairs, for he still had a job to do.

His guests had had a bad night, so he was determined to make them some gifts. And what better gifts than brand new, comfortable pairs of shoes? Was he or was he not a shoemaker, gods-dammit?

The whole chair creation had taken only an hour; he had time.

Humming, the part-time necromancer headed outside, setting his homemade three-legged stool—the buffet—down in a sunny spot, not intending to move it anytime soon. He always preferred extra light when he worked. Plus, having the shoemaking tools out might help people accept he was a shoemaker—he also had a big wooden sign, but the Billy squad had struggled with the concept.

Then again, they probably struggled with most things, like tying their shoelaces.

Jerry donned his napron, the traditional green apron shoemakers wore. He then opened his Saint Hugh’s Bones—oh, he should tell Boney about the name—and took out some tools: two knives, a pair of scissors, a ruler, a sewing needle, and finally some sewing line.

He then grabbed a piece of soft wood, on which he’d sketched the outline of both men’s feet yesterday. Using a large knife, he cut out wooden soles slightly larger than their footprints. Then, placing them over another piece of soft wood, he cut out a second sole for each shoe size.

Placing everything within easy reach, along with a patch of goatskin, he set to work.

The first piece would be the mayor’s new shoes. Not because the man had any sort of priority over Derek, but because his gift would be swift. He liked wearing simple wooden shoes, called clogs, as far as Jerry could tell. He would get a better version of the same thing.

Jerry cut the tanned leather into strips one and a half times as long as the sole’s width. Then, using a few small nails, he hammered the ends of the leather strips onto the soft wood, creating a simple set of goatskin shoes with wooden soles. He even added a thin woolen bottom. For extra stability, he sewed the densely packed strips onto each other, making sure the insides weren’t all stitchy.

There were a few more details involved in the process, but Jerry had tuned them out as they were trivial. In about an hour, he was done. These shoes weren’t anything grand, but they were his first ones in a while. He’d chosen to start simple on purpose.

To his surprise, when not devoting half his mental faculties to containing his necromantic urges, shoemaking was quite easier than he remembered. Being able to hold his concentration for more than a couple of blinks was helpful. Who would have thought?

The simple, familiar labor brought joy to Jerry. It was relaxing to dive into something he knew how to do. His heart was light and his hands loose. He smiled as he worked, losing himself to the process.

The next piece would be Derek’s boots. He’d noticed that while the hunter’s current pair was well-made, it had endured more than its fair share of winters. For his benefactor, Jerry wanted to make something really good.

Using the wooden soles he’d previously crafted, he grabbed another piece of wood and carved out a tall wooden support for each, hammering it at the sole’s back. The exact height was only a guesstimate, but this part didn’t have to be accurate; these were designed to reach roughly halfway up the calf, serving as support for the boot’s upper part.

Following the same process as before—hammering leather strips into the sole and adding woolen bottoms—he created the boot’s lower half. Then, he repeated the process for the upper parts, this time using leather strips twice as long as the support’s width. Calves were bulkier than feet. He hammered them in densely and stitched them together so that they completely protected the leg from the elements, weeds, and forest animals.

After a few hours of relaxed labor, the sun was approaching its peak, and the two pairs of shoes were ready. Of course, the process usually took longer, but Jerry was keeping things as simple as possible on purpose; he hadn’t worked on this in a while. These were only temporary shoes. Once he got back in shape, he would make his friends something truly terrific.

Boney and Headless also helped with the heavier parts, expediting the process. To their delight—or mild indifference, depending on which undead you asked—Jerry granted them the position of shoemaking assistants, with the prefix of ‘excellent.’

With the work done, the shoemaker stood up, and a loud ‘crack’ escaped his back.

“Ow,” he said. He looked up at the bright sun.

It had now been multiple hours since dawn, but Derek and Ashman were still in their rooms. Last night must have really been tough on them, thought Jerry, and felt a bit bad for not checking whether the tea was potable for non-necromancers. The next moment, he got over it.

Oh, well.

He walked inside. Soon after, both men opened their doors, looking gaunt and pale. The breakfast Boney had prepared seemed heavenly in their eyes, and they devoured it all like rabid beasts, though it was now lunch instead of breakfast. Jerry himself only ate an apple and some fox meat.

After resting for a couple of hours, Derek and Ashman tried on their new shoes, letting out exclamations of wonder and severe comfort. These were much better than their previous pairs, and Jerry felt proud of himself.

“Wait till you see the next ones,” he said. “These are just for practice.”

Come afternoon, the two men took off, heading back to the village. It hadn’t been an easy night, but both said they had fun, excluding the tea-induced parts. Jerry waved them goodbye and practically ushered them off, for he really couldn’t wait any longer. He had to do it.

He had to try out his new chair.

Finally left alone, Jerry went up to the third floor, gazed at the chair, prepared himself, then sat on it with a soft plop.

It was pure bliss. Jerry fell in love. He swore then and there to never abandon this chair, ever.

Alright! he thought. I’m not standing until I’ve made up for all the inferior seating I’ve done in my life!

And so, twenty-four hours went past. The next afternoon, Jerry finally had enough, and he smilingly sat up. Not because he’d gotten bored, of course—he just realized that, if he didn’t limit himself, this soft chair could easily turn into an addiction!

Therefore, Jerry decided to take a break from sitting on the chair and headed outside to lie on the grass by the rocky surroundings of his tower, enjoying the afternoon sun. The wind was getting chillier by the day now, but the cold never bothered him anyway; he just put on his thick woolen coat.

Lying in the sun, Jerry realized he quite enjoyed it. He let his thoughts roam free, just relaxing until it was nighttime. He then headed back inside, ate, and lied down. He did it all with a smile. Perhaps he would take a break tomorrow as well. Unless, of course, the world had other plans in mind.

But that would be rude, right?

14

A WEB OF SECRETS

“Hey!” Derek swung his hut’s door open with a big smile. “I’m back!”

“Hey, Dad,” Holly said. She was using a round rock to squash some herbs on the table, as Murdock had taught her to. She was working. And she was whistling.

“You look mighty happy today,” Derek said, rejoicing. Since the Jerry incident, as he called it, she had not smiled much, and now she was whistling. All his sorrows and worries melted away like snow in the spring. He smiled widely, grabbing his daughter in a bear hug.

“Dad!” she complained. “I’ll mess up the herbs!”

“So what? You can just regather them,” he responded playfully, letting her down so as not to disturb her work. “The forest isn’t that bad.”

“Yeah… I guess it isn’t.” She looked away reservedly, almost bashfully.

Wait.

This was no ‘almost.’ She had looked away bashfully.

“Holly,” Derek said, frowning, “do you have anything to tell me?”

“Nothing,” she responded immediately.

“Hmm.”

He went to the fireplace, pondering. He knew to always take his time with his thoughts; his mind had never been the fastest. He prodded the firewood, inspecting the fire his daughter had built by herself; it wasn’t bad. She was learning. She was growing.

“Do you like someone?” he asked.

“What?” She almost jumped. “No!”

He grinned. Then, he began laughing.

“My little girl is growing up!” he said loudly. “Who is it? Georgie? Or John, the blacksmith’s son?”

“Dad!” She blushed. “It—I’m not telling you!”

“Hohohoho.”

Derek sat on his soft chair, resting his feet on a three-legged stool he’d once picked up from a dead old man’s belongings.

“That’s all right. You’ll tell me when the time comes. Did you know your mother and I were eloping for quite some time? Her parents wanted to wed her to an ugly, weak man. Bah. Thank Manna I was there. And then, after⁠—”

“I know, Dad.” She released a drawn-out groan. “And then you ran away, all the way to Pilpen. I’ve heard the story, like, ten thousand times.”

“Now you’re exaggerating.” He smiled. “It can’t have been more than a hundred. But yes, brave woman, your mother. She left everything behind for me… I hope you can grow strong like her, Holly, but you won’t need to run away. I will accept your choice, no matter what. Children are immature, but some risks should be taken.”

“Really?” She threw him a side glance. “No matter what?”

“No matter what,” he confirmed. “It’s not like you’ll bring me a bandit or a beggar. Hoh, that would be rich.” Derek laughed, missing the sad glint in his daughter’s eyes.

“Just make sure he doesn’t treat you badly, okay?” he continued. “Or I will have to break both of his legs, and then you will be sad.”

“That’s not going to happen, Dad.” She blushed again. She’d long ago discarded her work and come to sit beside him. That made him happy. Ever since he’d delayed their moving to Milaris, their relationship had chilled a little. It was nice to see that his daughter still loved him, even if she couldn’t always have things her way.

Though he could feel her apprehension, she was clearly excited, too. There weren’t many girls in the village, so she was in a clear lack of friends to confess to. For now, he would fill that spot.

“Not going to happen? Heh.” He frowned playfully. “What, is he stronger than me? I’ll have you know I beat John in last year’s deer-eating competition.”

“He might be.” She straightened her back in pride.

“What!” He threw his hands up. “My daughter thinks I’ve gotten old. Soon, I’ll be a sack of bones, and Jerry will be delighted to have me.”

Though he was joking, his eyes narrowed. There it was again. Holly had recoiled. The look in her eyes had grown glazed, like a trapped deer about to have its throat slit.

His heart ached at the sight. She knew that Jerry meant well, but his undead had truly terrified her, and there was nothing Derek could do to help. She would either get over it with time or she wouldn’t, which would be a shame. Jerry was a good guy, one of the few in this village. He was young, too. Perhaps the two of them could…

But no, Holly already had someone she liked, apparently. As strong as the urge to arrange her marriage was, he would resist it. His wife’s parents had made that mistake, and where had it led them? Their daughter had run away, and she now lay buried in some far-off mountain village past the Narrow Sea…

No. He’d already lost one love. He would not lose another. No matter what.

At least, Holly would have someone now. That man could help her if things got rough, or if something happened to her father. A man accepted by others, not an outcast like himself. Derek closed his eyes, reclining in his chair.

He would not pressure her; when she was ready, she would tell him. He believed in her choice, whoever that man was.

He trusted his daughter.

“Honey, I’m home!” Ashman opened the door of his house and walked in.

“Welcome,” came an indifferent voice from the kitchen, and his heart clenched. Already, he knew what would follow.

“Are you okay?” He approached, stepping into the room. It smelled of deer meat and herbs and fire.

“I’m fine,” she responded, hunched over her pot. She didn’t turn to look.

His heart bled. His lips formed a straight line of sadness.

For the last few months, Melissa had been… different. She used to love him. She used to greet him at the door, hugging him tightly. She had always been an affectionate, passionate woman.

Now, she barely looked at him anymore.

Ashman approached, intending to hug her, but held himself. She would not enjoy it. Although she never openly spoke about it, Ashman believed their failure to have a child—his failure—had struck her hard. She had changed, gradually, and one day, she was no longer the woman he’d fallen in love with.

But that was okay. People change. And he would still love her through thick and thin, as she would love him forever. They’d promised, after all, sitting on a low tree branch under the summer moon.

It was funny. She was the one who talked him into making that promise before they got married, and now, sometimes, the burden of upkeeping it fell entirely on him.

But no, he shouldn’t have these thoughts. It was hard for her. Even if she didn’t show it as much anymore, she still loved and cared for him. He was sure of that. He cared for her, too.

At least, her recent venture into herbalism gave her some joy. It was like a ray of sunshine through the rain, and seeing his wife occasionally smile while mixing herbs warmed Ashman’s heart.

Discarding his previous apprehension, he walked up and hugged her from behind.

“It will be okay, Melissa…” he whispered, leaning into her dark hair. “Everything will be okay. I love you, and I always will.”

She grabbed his hand, silently giving it a light squeeze, and he let go, then walked out of the room and left her to her task.

She never did reply.

As it turned out, Jerry enjoyed lying on the grass very much. Despite the chill, or perhaps exactly because of it, he liked it more every day. There was just something about resting on the soft grass and closing your eyes…

The timelessness returned. With reasonable breaks, Jerry spent three entire days lounging. Others may have gotten bored, but Jerry was a simple man. Power, wealth, shoes, and bones; they could all wait. If something was nice, it was nice.

On the third day, Boney approached him.

“Excuse me, Master,” he said, spurring Jerry to open his eyes.

“What is it, my dear butler?”

“We have a guest, Master. I know him, actually. He’s⁠—”

“That’s all right. I like surprises.”

Jerry raised his head to take in his guest, then squinted. Once again, this was a person he did not recognize.

A young man, blond and strikingly handsome. Not that Jerry swung that way, but the man’s good looks were easily noticeable. His feet were nestled in well-maintained leather boots, and he wore a white vest that displayed his well-trained chest, while he also had a thin sword—a rapier—hanging from his hip.

Jerry wanted to groan. His experience with the Billies taught him that people who carried swords were rarely customers.

“What can I help you with?” He stood up, dusting himself. “Your boots look mighty fine. Where did you get them?”

“Milaris.” The man smiled. He gazed at the tower’s wooden sign. “I am not here for your shoemaking expertise.”

“Is that so? What else is notable about me?” Jerry opened his arms wide, clearly oblivious to the nearby bunch of undead building a fence.

“Are you not a necromancer?”

“I am.”

“Then why do you claim to be a shoemaker, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Because I am. Necromancy can’t earn me a living.”

The man looked at Jerry as if he was an idiot. Jerry thought the man could be a bit more discreet about it, but then again, it wasn’t Jerry’s business.

“It can. You can have them hunt, or forage, or even better, steal things for you,” said the man with the nice boots, quite interested in having a conversation. Apparently, he was not familiar with how comfortable grass could be, or he would not be demanding Jerry’s attention for any more than strictly necessary. The necromancer could only look at the ground with longing.

“That might be true,” Jerry replied, “but if all shoemakers went off to become necromancers, who would make shoes?”

The man blinked. “What?”

Jerry sighed, understanding that he would not be enjoying his grass again anytime soon. He stepped forward, extending a hand to the man. “I’m Jerry.”

“Brad.”

Brad gave Jerry a perfect smile, gripping his hand a bit too tightly. Now, Jerry wasn’t the most perceptive of people, but something felt off. This man, Brad… He made Jerry feel uneasy. Just to be sure, he mentally recalled Axehand from woodcutting. The world’s best lumberjack could live with one less log.

“How can I help you, Mr. Brad?” Jerry asked, playing it cool, only to discover that, for necromancers, playing it cool was a tad more difficult than usual. His undead could sense his mood.

By the side, Boney’s joviality had jumped out the window with an anchor tied around its neck. His empty eyes now looked at Brad in what was clearly a hard glare. Jerry could feel the skeleton’s tension. Farther away, the fence builders had stopped working and were collectively staring at Brad. The man coughed.

“Ahem,” he said, a bit flustered. “There is no need to get upset, my good friend. I have no bad intentions.”

“I am not upset,” Jerry said truthfully. “I just felt something weird about you, and it seems my friends agree.”

Brad’s eyes narrowed, taking a calculative look. He was clearly deliberating his next words, cutting and pruning them so they were perfect. Jerry never understood these people. Why go through all that trouble when you could just speak your mind?

“Allow me to be frank, Jerry.”

“Frank? I thought you were Brad.”

Brad ignored him. His current visage was sharp and unconstrained. It was different than before, so it confused Jerry, who decided not to dwell on the matter. If Brad wanted to hide who he was, there was little sense in trying to figure it out.

“I’m a bandit. A member of the Greenskin bandits, in fact. You have recently killed some of our people.”

“Did I?” Jerry asked. He considered lying, just to escape the annoyance of this man who talked in circles.

Brad stared at him blankly, again as if looking at an idiot. He pointed at Headless. “That one is still wearing his uniform.”

Jerry looked at Headless, who was indeed wearing the full uniform of a Greenskin bandit, minus the helmet. The zombie raised a thumb.

“You are very observant,” Jerry commented, and Brad’s gaze simply couldn’t get any flatter. “I have killed some of your people, yes, but only because they attacked me. Are you here to fight me?”

“No.” Brad smiled, revealing an impressive set of perfect white teeth. “They died because they were fools. We—and I speak for the Greenskin bandits as a whole—are wiser than that. I have been sent here by our esteemed leader, Jericho the Green, to invite you to join our ranks.”

“Ah, that is delightful!” Jerry exclaimed, relieved. They didn’t want to fight him anymore. How nice that he wouldn’t have any more trouble with the bandits. Now, he could calmly focus on making shoes and exploring the depths of life-and-death. “Thank you, but I refuse.”

“Hmm? Just that?” Brad grew confused, which quickly transformed into flustered.

“Yes.”

“Don’t you want to hear our terms? Our offer?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Don’t you want to negotiate, not even a tiny bit?”

“No.” Jerry shook his head.

“But why?”

“Because I’m a good guy. Bandits are bad guys, right? That makes us natural enemies—at the very least difficult to get along with.”

Brad’s eyes widened farther. Jerry chuckled. This man was a bit annoying, but he was fun, too.

“Just because you think you’re a good guy?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“But you’re a necromancer!”

“So what?” Jerry crossed his arms. “Necromancers can be good guys, too.”

“They cannot!”

“Sure they can.” Jerry nodded sagely. “You see, if life is the shoe, then magic is only the sole on which⁠—”

Unfortunately, Jerry’s wise explanation was interrupted by terrified screams coming from the forest. He opened his mouth to comment. Then, before he could understand what was happening, a head went flying, and the entire world sprang into explosive motion.

15

CRACKING BONES

Headless’ thrown head found Brad right in the chest. The man looked down and screamed. The head screamed, too. Jerry found it funny.

More screams came from the forest. Through the tree line, bandits jumped out in panic, running away from something. Behind them, a massive tree trunk appeared. Axehand easily held it aloft with both axes, wielding it like a gigantic bat. Huh, Jerry had no idea that the skeleton was so strong.

The bandits darted around like frightened children, but Axehand gave them no quarter. With an annoyed grunt, he swung the trunk into two of them, sending them flying away.

Another bandit had managed to sneak in. His sword met Axehand’s augmented ribs with a dull thud, barely denting them. Slowly, the skeleton turned around. The man defecated right then and there. Then, the branch came down and gently smashed his head in, granting him a messy death.

Meanwhile, Boney had grabbed Jerry and was running away for dear life. With speed worthy of a Milarympian runner, he reached the half-made fence and leapt over it to land in relative safety.

“Oh hey, nice!” said Jerry, who had been carried along. “Good job, Boney. Have you considered becoming an athlete?”

“This is hardly the time for jokes, Master,” replied the skeleton. “If we aren’t careful, these people might tear us bone from bone!”

As had become obvious, Brad had not come alone. Stalking from just behind the treeline had been another dozen bandits.

What actually happened was that the bandits ran into Axehand, who’d been mentally called over by Jerry—and, while the skeleton wasn’t aggressive, his massive, hulking, axe-handed form was beyond horrifying, sparking panicked attacks from the bandits. Then, Axehand did what any good skeleton would do and slapped them with the tree trunk he’d been carrying, leading to the present scene.

Jerry looked beyond the fence. It was pandemonium.

A bunch of bandits ran around or lay dead like headless chickens, trying to escape the trunk-wielding maniac in their midst. Axehand simply stood there, swinging his branch in the air like he just didn’t care. At some point, he’d realized these people were enemies of his Master, so his attacks carried a bit more oomph.

Brad had backed away to the trees, holding his chest and dry heaving. Headless’s head lay where Brad used to stand, completely unable to move on its own and trying to bite any passing bandits. Headless’ body was similarly useless, flailing around behind the fence. In his haste to help, the zombie had forgotten the cardinal rule of fighting; never lose your head in the middle of battle.

At that moment, the rest of the undead arrived in force.

A bony foot stepped on the fence, and Shorty flew above it, his bone jaw cackling madly and his finger blades glistening in the morning light. From the forest came Boboar, oinking in anger as it charged the bandits. Foxy was right behind him, ready to wreak havoc.

Seeing his menagerie of undead about to go ballistic, Jerry almost felt bad for the poor bandits.

“Hey, Boney,” he said, turning to the skeleton, “do you think we should⁠—”

A colossal bang from beyond the fence interrupted him. The tree trunk fell to the ground with a heavy thud as Axehand’s massive body sailed through the air, over Jerry’s head, and crashed against the tower’s wall.

Jerry turned around in shock.

In the middle of the bandits, where Axehand once stood and joyfully played with his branch, now stood a bare-chested mountain of a man. Long, dark hair framed his bronze-colored, square face, accentuated by bright emerald eyes and a wide nose stronger than a bull’s. He must have been at least six, seven feet tall, easily towering over everyone else, and his hands were the size of shovels while his feet were bare—an insult to all shoemakers. As if his titanic stature wasn’t enough, dense muscles filled his chest and arms; truly a monster of a man.

He was also unarmed, though an unnatural green light surrounded his hands and bare feet.

Jerry’s mouth formed into an ‘o’. Magic!

Boney gasped. “Oh, no.”

Boboar harrumphed, enraged at Axehand’s defeat, and charged straight at the newly arrived man. He did not dodge. With the green light around his feet and right hand brightening, he extended said hand to meet Boboar’s charge. The double-boar rammed against the man’s open palm—and went perfectly still.

With a loud, heart-wrenching sound, a crack ran down Boboar’s skull, and the skeletal animal stepped back in confusion. In its entire short life, nothing, no human, animal, or tree had ever stopped its charge.

The man grinned. Behind him, Foxy moved to attack.

Jerry’s heart clenched. This man would obliterate them, and these weren’t just undead; they were his friends!

Fall back! he ordered mentally. As one, the undead dropped what they were doing and sprinted toward the fence. It was only half-complete, but thankfully, the completed half was the one facing the bandits. Not that it would help much. Jerry suspected that maybe, possibly, Brad had been lying when he said they wanted no trouble.

At Jerry’s command, all the undead returned; except for Shorty.

Shorty, you see, was an odd one.

Souls were intrinsically linked to the body they inhabited. They were bound in deep, esoteric ways, to the point where each was part of the other.

When Jerry removed Shorty’s torso prior to animating him, he’d also crippled a large part of his soul, leaving him with a couple of loose screws, for lack of a better analogy. He’d later caught on to that fact, but there was nothing he could do; it was the same reason why Axehand, who’d gone through a similar body-altering process, could only grunt instead of speak.

In Shorty’s case, what happened was that a part of his soul was missing, and missing souls instinctively sought to fill themselves. When Jerry enacted all those modifications on Shorty, the incomplete soul drew inspiration from its master’s actions and filled the gaping hole with battle lust. Of course, other things were lost in the process, including a measure of capacity for reason.

All these culminated in the fact that, when Jerry commanded Shorty to return mid-battle, he did not heed the instruction. Not because he didn’t want to—undead could not disobey their master—but because he couldn’t comprehend the order’s contents. In his mind, retreat was not a concept.

And so it was that, unlike all his brethren, Shorty alone charged forth. His bone jaw cackled in manic glee and his finger blades scraped against each other, producing shrill, harsh sounds. The enemy turned his head to stare at Shorty’s charge.

“What is this supposed to be?” he said, snorting in amusement. Shorty jumped, ready for his blades to cut through flesh and bone. He reared a hand back.

Unfortunately, Shorty’s greatest strength in battle was his intimidation factor, and this man was not at all intimidated. A rough hand grabbed Shorty’s skull midair while his limbs flailed wildly, striking and failing to penetrate the man’s skin. Raising the other hand, the man grabbed Shorty’s waist. Then, pulling in two directions, he tore Shorty’s short spine apart, holding the skeleton’s head and shoulders in one arm and his legs in the other.

He let the bones drop, and they did, flopping motionless on the ground. Jerry stared. Nothing moved.

“How amusing.” The man laughed savagely, his voice deep and wild. “Is this the limit of necromancy, I wonder? Or are you just weak?”

Behind the fence, Jerry gazed at Shorty’s remains. He could probably reanimate him later, but watching one of his dear skeletons get ripped apart filled him with gloom. Moreover, reanimating Shorty wouldn’t bring back his memories. He would be reborn, but he would not be the same. Some things had been lost forever.

Jerry sighed. He shook his head.

“No idea,” he responded. “I’m pretty new to this necromancy thing.”

Next to him, Boboar and Axehand stood side by side, both cracked to a degree but still willing to fight. The axe-handed skeleton even seemed to want to attack the giant again, his empty eyes staring unwaveringly. Getting knocked away that easily had left him rather sour, Jerry could sense that much. Apparently, Axehand was a proud one.

Over on the bandits’ side, the fighting had stopped. They simply stood behind the ridiculously strong man, tending to their wounded and ignoring their dead. Brad walked to the man’s side, remaining one step behind.

“I can tell,” the man responded, pointedly staring at Jerry’s undead. “Necromancers are supposed to control entire hordes of undead, but all you have is a farmstand’s worth. Are you trying to make the enemy die of laughter?”

His entire body screamed with gory violence, and yet his words were calm, spoken as a pure observation, not an insult. It was as if he barely constrained his violent side, masking it behind a layer of refined elegance. It struck Jerry as weird, like a tiger wearing a mustache. A tiger that could crush you in seconds if it wanted to.

“Are you a wizard, too?” he asked curiously. If the man wanted to talk instead of kicking Jerry’s ass, then Jerry wouldn’t mind.

“I’m a biomancer. Well, kind of.”

He raised his hands, green specks of light rising from each of them. “More like an earth spirit, but that’s beside the point. Can I come in?” he asked, looking up and raising a brow. “I wouldn’t mind some tea.”

“Master,” Boney whispered quickly, “I suggest you run. Let us slow him down. That man is Jericho the Green, the leader of the Greenskin bandits. He’s invincible!”

“Hmm.”

Jerry considered it. Escaping would doom his undead friends, while Jericho appeared polite. Why not treat him to some tea? There was just one problem.

“I’m afraid you won’t like my tea,” he responded. “It’s quite strong.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

“Alright, then, be my guest. Boney, fetch us some tea, please.”

Jericho smiled.

“Master!” Boney hissed. “He wants to kill you!”

“Death is no big deal, Boney; you should know that. Calm down. And besides, he seems quite friendly, I’m sure it will be fine.”

“Master!”

Sighing, Jerry turned back to the bandit leader. “Hey, are you going to kill me?”

Jericho raised a brow in amusement. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“See?” Jerry regarded Boney, who was positively flummoxed. “It’s fine. Now go; the tea won’t brew itself.”

Meanwhile, Jericho turned to Brad, who skulked behind him. “So much for proving yourself, Brad,” he said calmly, yet this calmness hid mercilessness. “You have failed, and I will decide on your punishment later. Wait here.”

“Yes, sir.” The bandit shivered, but to his credit, did not whine. Perhaps whining in front of Jericho was unwise.

The giant man walked forward, reaching Jerry’s black fence and politely stepping through the door. The skeletons all stood still, Axehand brimming with the desire to fight, but Jerry’s will kept them from acting up.

“These are all fairly unique,” Jericho commented, inspecting the undead like items on a shop window. Foxy, Boboar, Headless, and Axehand all stared back, while Boney had left to prepare the tea.

“Yeah, they’re all pretty nice,” Jerry said with pride.

“Are the humanoids all mine?” the bandit leader asked, pointing at Axehand. “That one feels like Lom.”

“Was he the one wielding twin axes?”

“Yes.”

“Then, yes.”

“I see.”

Jerry looked at the undead again. “Yes, they’re all yours, or at least they used to be—now, they belong to nobody but themselves. I do have a few spare bodies in my basement if you want to take them back. I mean, it would make me sad, but you can.”

“Hmm.” Jericho cupped his chin. “I don’t particularly care. If I do kill you, I will have my subordinates carry them all the way back. It will be a fitting punishment for losing to a few skeletons and a bodiless head.”

“It’s technically a headless body, but sure. Tea?”

“Tea.” Jericho nodded and stepped inside the tower, his head almost bumping against the door’s top. Jerry followed.

16

JERICHO THE GREEN

Not much is known about nature spirits.

They are separated into five elemental affinities, same as the schools of magic: pyromancy, hydromancy, biomancy, photomancy, and, of course, necromancy.

Being physical manifestations of the natural world, nature spirits—or magical creatures, as they are often called—embody magic in ways that humans never could. The shape of each is usually unmalleable, but together, they come in infinite varieties.

Fire spirits usually manifest as flamen; men made of flames. Water spirits vary in appearance, but their most seen humanoid forms are nymphs and mermaids, women who protect the waters and drag weak-willed sailors to their doom. The spirits of light manifest in strange ways, oftentimes appearing only as flashes in the dark or laughter in the chimney—they are formless, just like the element they encompass. As for death spirits, we do not have enough information to make meaningful observations; without a death-aligned land to grow on, they are only seldom witnessed in graveyards or bloody battle sites, resembling wild undead.

The most encountered kind, due to pure geography, are earth spirits. They can appear as golems or animals, giants or dwarves. In human form, they usually resemble hardy men, strong and stubborn, like the mountaintops that constantly survey the progress of mankind.

The strength of spirits varies greatly between specimens, with the weakest at the level of insects and the strongest as beings only an Archmage would dare approach. Even I, for all my undead armies and expertise in the domain of the soul, would never stand a chance against them.

Yet, it is these powerful creatures which fascinate me most, and the ones that provide the most useful bodies. Without nature spirits, I fear our world would be much more mundane.

- From the personal notes of Ozborne the Cursed

“Your house is odd.”

Jericho walked into Jerry’s tower without a care in the world. He carried an air of confidence as if this was his house, but Jerry couldn’t blame him. The man had thrown Axehand a few dozen feet through the air. If he wanted this tower, he could probably take it.

“It used to be a guard tower,” the necromancer said, walking beside the bandit leader. A fitting duo, if the necromancer wasn’t such a good guy.

“Ah, that’s why.” Jericho cupped his chin. “I knew there used to be a guard tower around here. I thought we’d demolished it, but it was just abandoned.”

“Well, not quite. A squad of soldiers came by a few days ago and wanted back in. I told them no. They said they’d return with their superior, but I just hope they don’t. If this tower really is theirs, I will have to move out, and that will be a shame.”

“Why not just kill them?” the bandit asked as they climbed the stairs.

“Why would I? They didn’t do anything bad. It was I who took over their tower.”

Jericho paused, turning his head to look at the necromancer. “You’re an odd one.”

“I know.”

“Do you mind if I ask an intrusive question?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Are you mentally challenged?”

Jerry blinked in surprise, opened his mouth to reply, then thought better about it.

“I don’t think I am, but I might be,” he finally said. “Plenty of people have called me that, including my parents. They would know, I guess. I did spend fifteen years with a permanent headache which made me only semi-conscious. Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity.”

They reached the third floor, where a silent hearth stood among a few chairs. Jericho moved toward Jerry’s heavenly soft chair.

“That’s my chair,” the necromancer noted.

“I know,” Jericho said, placing his fat ass down precisely in the middle of Jerry’s chair. It creaked under the weight.

By this point, Jerry was growing annoyed. Attacking someone’s house and temporarily destroying their undead was fine, but stealing their favorite chair? That was a whole new level of evil!

Sighing, he took another seat. It lacked the same heavenly fluffiness he’d gotten used to having under his buttocks, but oh well. It wasn’t every day you got to have an evil bandit overlord in your house. Concessions had to be made.

“So,” began the chair-stealing villain, “you are a necromancer. Do you have a name, too?”

“I’m Jerry. Jerry Shoeson.”

“Seriously?”

“Very.”

“By Gaia and all the gods…” Jericho leaned forward, grabbing his face. He rose back up with a sigh. “I am Jericho Earthsong, Jericho the Green, leader of the Greenskin bandits. I am also an earth spirit and nigh invincible, and I enjoy concise conversations. Now, with the introductions over⁠—”

“A moment, please,” Jerry interrupted. “Hearing your introduction, it seems I missed some parts. I’m Jerry Shoeson, necromancer and shoemaker. I’m also not at all invincible and enjoy sitting on fluffy chairs.”

Jericho looked at the fluffy chair below him. “Are you mocking me?”

“No.”

A heavy glare landed on Jerry. Jericho clearly debated killing him on the spot, and Jerry was fine with it. What was life without its little pleasures, like sitting on fluffy chairs or mocking the people who temporarily steal your fluffy chairs? Some things were worth risking death for.

Besides, Jerry got the distinct impression that things would work out.

Jericho eventually elected not to obliterate him.

“I am not a very patient man,” he said, leaning back and bringing his fingers together in front of him. “Now, you see, Jerry, I’m in a bit of a pinch. On the one hand”—he opened a shovel-sized hand—“you are a necromancer. An incredibly valuable asset, potentially. If your allegiances are properly set, you could increase my influence manyfold.

“On the other hand”—he opened his other hand—“you have killed several of my men and seem uncooperative. You’re also a potential threat because you seem just stupid enough to cross me. And now comes the question: should I kill you or try to recruit you? What do you think, Jerry?”

“That’s a tough one. I don’t suppose that leaving me alone is an option?”

“It is not.”

“Hmm. Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t kill me. I can make very nice shoes, which you seem to be in dire need of.”

“I am not, and I believe you are missing the point.” Jericho sighed, turning to the ceiling. “Oh, Gaia, I finally meet such an asset, and you make him dumb as a brick?”

Jerry did not feel particularly dumb, but he suspected this was not the best time to bring it up. Considering Jerry dumb seemed to increase Jericho’s patience reserves, which was good. If an earth spirit decided to go amok inside his tower, that would be terribly inconvenient and equally deadly.

“Look.” The bandit leaned forward, his emerald eyes approaching Jerry’s. They were bright, his eyes, and incredibly piercing. Jerry felt as if he was staring at the heart of a dense, lively forest. There was thinly veiled danger, too, like a hiding tiger about to pounce, which wasn’t too far off from the truth.

“I want you to join me. What is it you want? Women? I can give them to you. You don’t have to be lonely in this god-forsaken middle of nowhere. Money? I can give you that, too. My coffers are full. Food? Booze? Power? Influence? Living men to command? I can give you everything you want. All you have to do is ask—and obey me.”

Jericho’s voice rose, filled with promises of power and riches untold. Filled with magic. A vision spread in front of Jerry’s eyes, replacing reality. He, sitting on a golden throne, with scantily clad women tending to his every need and hard-eyed men waiting on his orders.

Except Jericho did not understand Jerry.

He blinked, escaping the vision as quickly as possible. Jerry did not care about authority or women, and moreover, who would ever want to sit on a golden throne? His own fluffy chair was much more comfortable. If Jericho simply offered to stand up, he might have given the matter some thought.

Unfortunately, Jericho did not do that. He only offered hard, inconvenient places to sit on. Hardly a tempting deal.

“That’s a sweet offer, but you’re bandits, right?” he asked. “Doesn’t that include killing, robbing, and pillaging?”

“Among other things, yes.” Jericho leaned back again, narrowing his eyes. The ease with which Jerry overcame the vision put him on guard.

“Well, I don’t want to do that. I want to give people shoes, not steal the ones they already have. I want to build axe-handed brutes to use as lumberjacks, not executioners. This is such a beautiful world… I don’t want to see people crying. I want to see them laughing.”

Jericho did not share the sentiment. He only frowned and stared at Jerry, who briefly wondered whether he was going to die. Not that he minded overmuch; death was something to be avoided, if possible, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Obviously.

“You puzzle me,” Jericho said, his words slow and thoughtful. “And amuse me, too, in equal measure.”

Jerry considered asking for that vision magic Jericho had used before. If he could learn it, perhaps he could get his point across more easily next time.

Yes, I can picture it now. Hundreds of smiling people seated on fluffy chairs, wearing sparkly, brand-new shoes. What a nice image.

Silence fell for a few moments, both men lost in their own thoughts.

“Tell you what, Jerry.” Jericho tapped his finger on the armrest. “Normally, I would have killed you, but usable necromancers are rarer than flying whales… Here’s what we’re going to do: Winter is coming, and then it will be spring in roughly three months from now. That is your deadline. Until the snow begins to melt.”

Jerry listened with rapt attention. He was not going to die, then. That was good.

“By that time, you must decide between two choices: submit to me or die. There is nothing else. If you choose to submit, I will give you everything you’ve ever wished for. However, if you want to live, you must also prove your worth to me. The display I saw today was honestly pathetic.”

“Oh?”

“It was humiliating. Necromancers should not be as weak as you are. Where is your army of undead? Where are the wraiths and ghouls that make up your personal guard? Where’s the skeletal dragon you’re supposed to ride? As is, you could be defeated by a random Milarisian garrison, and that speaks volumes of your determination. I have no use for such weak subordinates.”

“Oh,” Jerry said again.

“When the snow melts, I will return. By that time, you must have built an undead army that can satisfy me, or at least something not entirely disappointing,” Jericho spoke patronizingly. “Your mental condition is no excuse for weakness. I honestly don’t care. If you have that army and are willing, you can join me, and together, we will build a bright future. Otherwise, you will be tortured until you reveal all the secrets of your magic, and then your corpse will be hung from my roof as an example. Am I clear, Jerry?”

“Very,” replied the necromancer, though he thought the torture part could be skipped. If Jericho wanted to know Jerry’s secrets of necromancy, he just had to ask. Knowledge was to be shared—not that Jerry had any particularly bright nuggets of wisdom to give.

“Good,” Jericho said, standing up. Jerry’s eyes saw heaven; the fluffy chair was once again vacant. It was at that moment that Boney arrived, holding a tray with a teapot and two steaming cups.

“Your tea, sirs,” he said curtly. Wordlessly, Jericho grabbed one cup. Jerry tried to say something.

“That is⁠—”

Before he could finish, Jericho downed the cup of boiling hot tea without revealing the slightest hint of pain. Jerry cringed at the sight, while Boney’s jaw was left hanging.

“You were saying?” Jericho said as he gently placed the cup back on the tray, his voice perfectly normal.

“Never mind.”

If the chair thief wanted to clean his bowels that badly, well, it wasn’t Jerry’s job to stop him.

Does the tea even work on earth spirits?

Too bad Jerry wouldn’t be there to find out. Maybe he could ask when the snow melted.

“Then, that is all,” said Jericho, heading for the stairs. Jerry followed, gazing longingly at his chair. The time will come, he promised it.

They exited the tower, Jericho walking ahead with Jerry and Boney in tow. The undead were still there, glaring down the bandits who were making a point not to stare back.

“Men,” Jericho barked, “on your feet. Carry the wounded, leave the dead. We’re out of here.”

They perked up, moving to grab those who couldn’t walk by themselves. Brad, the acting vice-leader, approached Jericho. “Sir, if I may, what about⁠—”

“You may not. Failures do not get to speak.”

Brad’s eyes shook as he bowed. “Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and Jerry,” said Jericho, turning back as they were about to leave, “if this tower has Milarisian guards in it when I return, I will kill them, you, and everything you love. Understood?”

“Understood.” Jerry nodded.

“Very well, then. May the Wall hold forever—though I suspect you wouldn’t mind the opposite.”

With that, the bandits took off, disappearing from view and from Jerry’s life for the next few months.

“Master…” Boney said carefully.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Boney?”

“I highly doubt that, Master.”

“First, we must revive Shorty. Seeing him like that pains me greatly,” Jerry said, his eyes rife with sadness. “And then, of course, we should drink that tea before it goes cold.”

“I regret being reborn,” Boney lamented as he followed. Meanwhile, the other undead also gathered around Shorty, their still-developing minds aching for the loss of one of them. Even after getting reborn, Shorty’s previous memories would be wiped out and he’d have to start from zero.

Jerry raised his arms, sending a flood of magic into Shorty’s remains. And nothing happened.

17

UNDEATHLY CONSEQUENCES

Of all the fields of study, I am most interested yet least knowledgeable on souls. Even the little I do know is enough to stand head and shoulders above most of my peers—including the bearded fools of Erland.

Through my studies, I have discovered that souls are immaterial, unfettered to the realm we mortals occupy. We should not even be able to detect their existence, yet we can, for there is one thing which calls souls to our realm and binds them to it: bodies.

For reasons I have yet to comprehend, souls seek to occupy unborn bodies. I theorize that soul-inhabited bodies inherit special traits to their children, perpetuating the chain, but I lack the instruments to perform further experiments.

Souls occupy bodies, slowly bonding over the course of one year regardless of pregnancy length. Then, magically, they are bound forever. Even when the body dies, the soul’s innermost tethers remain, and it is only through that ephemeral connection that we necromancers can harvest their power, twist them to our image, and force them to reattach to a corpse.

However, once the body is damaged enough, the link shatters, letting the soul float back into the dark, hidden void from which it came.

- From the personal notes of Ozborne the Cursed

Jerry failed.

And then he failed again. Despair creeped in. He was heartbroken.

Jerry was left staring mutedly at the hyper-aggressive skeleton’s remains, snapped in two by the earth spirit calling itself Jericho the Green. Jerry could still feel Shorty’s soul in there; it was weak and spasming, flickering like a dying firefly.

The poor thing was slipping into a dark unknown away from Jerry’s perception. He stared at the bone remains for a few moments in silence. His undead, feeling his growing sadness, gathered around, taking in the remains of their companion. There would be no more undeath for Shorty, despite how much he enjoyed it.

Jerry gradually realized that Shorty was gone forever, and the loss cut through his soul like a burning nail. The shock and regret left him mute for a while. His world turned dark. He fell to his knees and cried. His undead did, too, and for a time, the tower echoed with mournful grief.

They buried him in the backyard, Axehand and Headless teaming up to dig a grave worthy of Shorty’s stature. They made it small, not forsaking in death what made him special in undeath. His name while living was unknown; Tom Boney probably knew it, as his previous self had been traveling with the man who later became Shorty, but he never gave it, and Jerry never asked. It was unimportant. This was their friend, Shorty.

They lowered him into the grave tenderly, then stood around in silence. Thunder boomed from above. For the first time in a while, it would rain. The droplets fell on them before it quickly turned into a cascade, but Jerry didn’t mind; it certainly fit the mood.

After he’d had enough, he said his final words. He was Shorty’s creator, the equivalent of a living creature’s father, so the duty fell on him.

“Goodbye, Shorty. You were small, but you never let that stop you from protecting our home. You did well. We will remember you. Forever.”

That was it. Jerry was a simple man and being sad did not change that. Under the pouring rain, they shoveled dirt into the grave, then placed a carved rock over it.

‘Here lies Shorty, who was as big as he was small. He died the way he wanted: fighting.’

Then, they headed back inside. Even if none of them could get sick, the rain had stopped being pleasant after a while.

Jerry was sad. Confused, even. He had not known his undead could truly die. He’d thought they would remain forever, keeping him company until he left the realms of life first—perhaps even longer if he could find a way to make himself into an undead, though he wasn’t sure he wanted that. Somehow, he felt that the beauty of life lay in living it properly, embracing its ups and downs, including the end.

As he that thought, Jerry remembered his father’s long-forgotten, similar words of wisdom, ‘Life is the art of letting go,’ he used to say. Jerry never understood what that meant. Now, he did.

Disliking someone was no reason to ignore their wisdom.

Jerry felt sad, but that was okay. He exhaled deeply once, then twice, and his mind calmed. The sadness turned into beauty, not disappearing, but accentuating the joy of what had passed and what would come. Shorty had died, as would everyone. After all, death was nothing to fear, only something to avoid when possible.

He surveyed his undead; as always, their psyche took after his. Boney’s gaze was deep, pained, yet serene; he had seen the same truth as Jerry. Out of all his undead, this was the one most like him. Perhaps, he realized in a moment of epiphany, that’s why Boney never lost his memories. An interesting idea to explore later.

Boboar and Axehand had also been injured in their battle against Jericho. Boboar sported a large crack down the middle of his head, while Axehand had minor cracks all over his body. Unfortunately, Jerry could not fix cracks—that would be the domain of biomancers—only completely replace bones, which he wasn’t willing to do.

Replacing Boboar’s skull would require de-animating him first, which would wipe clean all these months of living together. It would essentially kill Boboar, and Jerry would not do that. The boar himself hated the idea, too.

As for Axehand, replacing one bone at a time could be done, though requiring some finesse on Jerry’s part. However, Axehand’s competitive spirit flared again, and he mentally asked Jerry not to replace anything. He would bear these scars as proof of his weakness, and next time, he would be ready. He would take revenge.

Jerry smiled and nodded. Jericho had killed Shorty. He, too, wanted revenge; burned with the desire. He swore to make it happen.

When these conversations were done, Axehand grunted and triumphantly raised an axe in the air. Then, after thanking Jerry with an oink and a grunt respectively, the two took off toward the outside. The undead did not mind rain.

Watching their departure, Jerry turned his gaze sideways, at the buffet placed by the entrance. He’d brought it in to avoid the rain. Looking at the shoemaking stool reminded Jerry of life’s simplicity, the joy of getting lost in one’s craft. He wanted that right now, but he did not move toward the buffet, nor did he take out his tools.

Jerry enjoyed making shoes, but the world did not. Jericho would return, and Jerry would have to focus on his other craft until then. Even though he’d been here a while, not a single villager of Pilpen had come to request shoes, not even when they walked on hard clogs or barefoot.

They did not see him as a friend or shoemaker, but for what was most readily visible: a necromancer. And, while Jerry was sure they would eventually understand, the sight of his lonely, pristine, yet almost unused buffet pierced through his joviality. He wanted to help. He wanted to belong. He did not want to be alone.

A bony hand touched his shoulder, shaking the desolate thoughts away.

“Master,” Boney said, his jaw clacking, “can I get a hat, please?”

Jerry looked to the skeleton. He was naked, as they all were—they had nothing to hide in the first place—but Boney was Boney.

He smiled. “Sure. What color?”

“What colors do we have?”

“Gray.”

“Then gray.”

“All right.”

Jerry set to work. It was simple. He first grabbed the ball of goatskin, using his scissors to cut out a round piece. He took two thin wooden strips, nailed them in a cross, and nailed the leather on the cross to form a simple gray cap. He then nailed the whole thing on a simple wooden ring to serve as a base and passed it to Boney, smiling.

While working, he considered his previous thoughts more calmly. While the desolation remained, it was no longer gloomy. Hope blossomed in the darkness, bringing a serene smile to Jerry’s face. Boney had helped Jerry in his time of need, as would all his lovely undead. The villagers would eventually understand, too, probably, but until then…

He was not alone. He had his friends.

“Thank you, Master,” Boney said, voice filled with gratitude as he put on the hat. It fit perfectly.

“No, thank you, Boney… You know, I sometimes feel that I’m alone in this vast world,” Jerry externalized his thoughts. “That everyone is alone. Our paths in life bring us close to others, but in the end, our path is only ours, and everybody else will eventually branch off. Everything we have, we will lose…

“We are doomed to solitude, in a way—and yet, as desolate as that sounds, I see no sadness in it, Boney, for though it is painful, that pain makes us real. The world is a lonely place, but if we can see through the gloom, what’s left of life is a colorful tapestry so beautiful in its brutality that no mortal artist could ever hope to replicate it. All humans are artists, and life is our combined masterpiece.”

He looked at the ceiling and listened to the rain falling outside. “Though my life is doomed to be lonelier than most, I am blessed by all the gods to have the greatest companions I could ever ask for—all of you. What do you think, my skeleton?”

“Your words make sense, Master.” Boney nodded sagely. “You say we have nobody, and indeed, I have no body.”

Jerry squinted, the joke taking some time to settle. Then he laughed, long and loud and rough, expelling the final dregs of sadness.

“Ah, it seems I finally hit your funny bone, Master,” Boney continued hammering, and Jerry folded on his belly, laughing.

“You keep getting worse and worse, Boney. If this is the consequence of keeping your memories, it might have been a bad trade.”

“Maybe, Master, maybe.” The skeleton attempted, and naturally failed, to smirk. “I must go now. The rain does not affect us undead, and the fence still needs building. I trust you can take care of your thoughts, Master?”

“I can, my good friend.” Jerry smiled warmly. “You do you. I have a plan to draft.”

He really did. Jericho’s arrival had placed a time limit on Jerry’s continued existence here. He was beginning to enjoy this place, and now…

Well, something needed to be done. He pondered as he descended the stairs to the basement.

Running away was out of the question, except as a last reserve. It was winter, and things would only get worse as the days and months went by. Jerry did not fancy becoming an icicle somewhere deep in the mountains.

Fighting was exceptionally out of the question. As much as Jerry desired revenge, Jericho had thrown Axehand’s massive body as if it weighed nothing and endured Boboar’s charge head-on. The legends that Jerry had heard about nature spirits, that they were invincible to mortals, came to mind; perhaps they were true.

Then again, perhaps they weren’t. Even though Jerry and his undead couldn’t defeat Jericho, there was someone who could. Someone much stronger than Jerry, and also someone who happened to be a bandit’s natural enemy.

The Royal Guard of Milaris.

This area fell under their jurisdiction, as confirmed by the arrival of the Billies. They were an army, and could certainly take care of some bandits, especially if Jerry helped out.

Nodding to himself, he decided he liked that idea, even though it would probably end up with his lovely tower confiscated—but that was okay. If spring came, then heck, he could build his own tower!

Jerry slapped his forehead; why hadn’t he thought of that before?

But then, there was another issue. How would he contact the soldiers? His mind ran back to the Billy squad and their captain, Reymond, who’d promised to return soon. He really hoped they did.

Until then, Jerry needed to start working, and he already knew the first order of business. Whether the soldiers, the bandits, or the villagers came, he would like to know beforehand. Knowledge was power, as Jerry’s dad used to say, and the wisdom of Jerry’s dad was on a roll today.

Reaching his basement, Jerry surveyed the available bodies—thirteen in total, including the slain bandits from the battle earlier. Jericho had left them behind as a sign of rotten goodwill.

Speaking of rot, the older ones had started to smell, so he had to do something about them. He mentally assigned that as the second order of business. As for the first, it was time to create a scout. He briefly looked over the bodies and found zero suitable candidates. They were all humans, as normal and uncharacteristic in death as they could be, and that was truly a boring idea.

His undead had to have a spark about them! They couldn’t just be Skelly One and Two and Three. No, that was an old idea, and it had gone out of fashion. But he still needed a scout…

Jerry’s eyes shone. He’d just had the best idea!

18

BIRDS AND HERBS

When the rain was past, Jerry ran outside to the moist forest. Water droplets hung from the edge of leaves and the air was filled with the scent of petrichor, one he particularly enjoyed. All through the forest, the animals hiding from the rain were now resurfacing, bringing life back to the wet green.

Jerry walked past the thick trees and sparse foliage, stepping on patches of grass as he made his way inward. He could have asked Foxy to perform this task but doing it himself felt better.

Finally, after half an hour of wandering, he found it; a dead bird lying in a puddle on the ground. Perhaps it had been injured and died of blood loss, or it had been killed by an animal that didn’t stop to eat it. In any case, it fit Jerry’s criteria.

This bird was a soft little thing. Red, with its beak and the ends of its feathers colored a bright black. It was barely the size of Jerry’s palm, a tender existence trapped in a harsh world, just like Jerry himself.

Kneeling next to the body, he spared it a soft look before filling it with magic. The soul trapped inside shivered, shuddering with joy. Magical tethers reconnected it to the body, flashing with power, and the bird twitched. It moved a wing, then another, before turning to look at Jerry.

Its head tilted; it did not understand what was going on, only that it was alive, or unalive, and that was enough.

“Hello, my little friend.” Jerry smiled warmly, extending a finger to pet the bird zombie’s head. It accepted his touch, rubbing against it. “From now on, you are one of us. In joy and in sadness, we shall walk together, for we are bound. And your name shall be…”

He paused, thinking. “…Birb. And you will be the world’s greatest scout.”

The bird ruffled its wings, satisfied with the name—or so Jerry assumed—before flying in a circle above Jerry. It perched on a branch and stared at him in the unnerving way birds have to stare at people, though Jerry could only sense warmth from its soul.

It was a weird thing, its soul; so small and weak and perpetually scared. The thoughts and feelings flowed outrageously fast in there, as if the world and Jerry with it moved in slow motion.

Are all small animals like this? he mused, remembering how flies always dodged a human’s swats impossibly quickly. He set the thought aside. Gazing at his newest undead creation, another burning question appeared in his mind.

“Tell me, Birb, can you still poop?” he asked it, eager. If he could weaponize bird poop, then even Jericho the Green would go off running.

The bird looked at him in confusion, only the link between their souls managing to confer the meaning of Jerry’s words. It concentrated for a moment, and then, with a soft plop, a small, white stain was left on the ground below.

“Muahaha!” Jerry raised his arms in the air, laughing at the sky. “It works! We are unstoppable!”

Birb titled its head, and the necromancer chuckled.

“Come, Birb,” he said, motioning for it to sit on his shoulder. “It’s time for you to meet our friends.”

They returned, and Jerry introduced Birb to the other undead one by one. It wasn’t necessary, of course, but he did it anyway, as Shorty’s passing hammered in the fact that these were his long-term companions. He wanted to forge a strong relationship between them so they could be a proper team.

Birb took especially well to Headless, on whose shoulders it liked to perch. Whether this happened due to both being zombies or because Headless’s shoulders happened to be his highest vantage point, that was unknown. Birb also tried to perch on Boney’s gray cap, but the skeleton defended his only piece of clothing fiercely, clutching it in his hands and shooing Birb away. It tweeted in annoyance. Jerry laughed.

With the introductions said and done, Birb took to the skies, eager to complete its duties; survey the land for threats and guests. Jerry wasn’t at all worried about Birb’s safety. As he had come to know, animals possessed an uncanny ability to sense whether one of them was a zombie, as well as a tendency to shit bricks and run the opposite way whenever they met one.

At worst, it would increase the frequency of Jerry’s land being pooped on.

Then, deciding to reward himself for his great ideas, the necromancer grabbed Boney and had some tea.

“This really is some wonderful tea,” he said, sipping from the cup. “It’s a shame the others can’t enjoy it.”

“They can, Master,” Boney replied, pouring a few drops of tea down his throat and onto the floor below. “They just don’t enjoy the aftermath.”

“Ah yes, the dreaded aftermath. Do you think there are other kinds of herbs nearby, Boney? Maybe a variety of these ones which doesn’t cause spontaneous bowel evacuation?”

The skeleton looked up, his empty eyes staring blankly, his nonexistent brain calculating.

“Perhaps, Master. As a matter of fact, I believe we should make searching for herbs our priority. We might bury our bones here, come spring, but at least our living friends will have drunk some good tea.”

“Amusing as always. Alright, I get it. Let’s leave the tea discussion for later. Jericho is more important.”

“Indeed. What do you think we should do, Master?”

“Wait for the Billies to return, I think.” Jerry laid back in his heavenly soft chair, enjoying how his buttocks had regained their right to sit on it. “They said they’d be back soon. Let’s hope they make it before the snow falls.”

“Who are the Billies?”

“Oh, the soldiers. You know, because they look like such hillbillies.”

The skeleton, despite his lack of eyes, threw Jerry a glance emptier than usual.

“In any case”—the necromancer coughed in his hand—“if they can help us against the bandits, that would be great.”

Boney cupped his chin.

“I don’t think they will,” he said. “I used to belong to Jericho’s group, and they’ve been here for a while. Killed many soldiers, even. If the Royal Guard intended to do something about them, it would have happened already. Not to mention that opposing Jericho is impossible—the man is invincible.”

“Is he really?”

“Very much so. When I was still alive, I once saw him wrestle a bear into submission with his bare hands. He didn’t even use magic. Another time, he, by himself, annihilated an opposing bandit group that consisted of dozens of men, and he emerged unscathed. You saw him down a cup of steaming tea without batting an eye. He’s invincible.”

“Well, that greatly limits our options,” Jerry complained. “We must find some other way to save ourselves, then. One that doesn’t involve suicide by Jericho.”

“Escape is still impossible, as you would simply freeze to death. Maybe the soldiers will agree to help, after all. A necromancer’s favor is valuable; it might convince them to send their own strong people against Jericho, maybe some two-feather wizards, though they would be just as likely to annihilate us as well.”

Jerry frowned in thought. Two-feathered wizards were extraordinarily strong and equally rare. They wouldn’t move easily, but if they did, even Jericho would have to take them seriously.

As a novice, Jerry was a one-feather wizard. It sounded close, but there was a massive gulf between him and the next rank.

“Maybe we can feed him tea until his heart slips out his intestines?” Boney said.

“You know, that’s actually not a bad idea.”

“I was jesting, Master. Earth spirits are resistant to diseases of the earth.”

“Resistant?” Jerry raised a brow. “Not immune?”

Boney frowned in his boney way. “Not immune, no. Indeed! Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yes! We dress up as bandits and offer him the leaves as breakfast every day for the entire winter.” Jerry nodded. “Brilliant!”

The skeleton looked on blankly.

“As delightful as that sounds, Master, I had another idea in mind. The forest contains many herbs. If we can get Foxy to collect enough of them, maybe we can concoct a poison strong enough to incapacitate him.”

“That’s a great idea, too!” Jerry’s eyes shone. “How exactly do we do that though?”

“There are herbalists in the village. We could ask them.”

“Let me see.” Jerry began extending fingers for each person. “There is Murdock, who wanted to kill me. Then there is Melissa, who despises me, for some reason. Finally, there is Holly, who might be willing to help but is as new to the trade as they come and deathly afraid of me.”

He stopped counting. “Boney, I am out of fingers.”

“That is unfortunate, Master. None of them are likely to help us. Holly might, but she knows little. She just collects some herbs occasionally, from what I’ve gathered. If we told Murdock or Melissa about the encroaching bandit camp, they might be willing to put their prejudice aside.”

“I’d hate to ask a favor of those two. Is there another way?”

“Hmm…” Boney trailed off in thought. His bone jaw clacked absent-mindedly, while his gray cap somehow made him seem more intellectual. “If they will not help willingly, and you don’t want to ask for favors, there is a third way—not the violent kind, don’t worry. Murdock is giving out lessons to Melissa every week, according to the mayor. I presume they will continue throughout the winter. If we could somehow spy on them for a few months, then perhaps…”

“Boney, you are a genius!” Jerry smacked a fist on his open palm. “This is perfect! By eavesdropping on another’s lessons, we will become master herbalists within three months and then use random forest herbs to concoct a poison capable of felling an earth spirit!”

“It does sound a bit hopeless when you say it, Master, but I think it’s worth a shot. If it doesn’t work out, you can always put your pride aside and ask them.”

“That’s right. As for the spying plan, I have just the right person for the job!”

A moment later, Birb sat perched on the windowsill.

“My little Birb, it is time for your first mission!” Jerry said, and the bird proudly ruffled its feathers. “Every Sunday, the village wizard teaches herbalism in his house. That’s tomorrow. You must go there and spy on the lesson!”

Birb chirped determinedly.

A few days ago, Jerry had discovered that he could borrow his undead’s senses and watch the world through them, if he really focused. He just hadn’t found a use for it until now.

Additionally, when Derek and Ashman had come over, Jerry had asked where Murdock’s house was, out of curiosity. It was apparently a bit outside the village, hidden behind a short hill.

And so went the terribly ambitious plan. Come dawn of the next day, Birb set off on its journey. Despite its small size and the strong winds, it was determined; its master’s plan would succeed. For the man who had given it a new lease of unlife, it could not fail.

Following the winds, Birb flew over trees and rocky ground, turned left at the village, and passed over the short hill. There, right below it, was a big house, just as the master had said.

It was made of rocks and bricks, stacked together and supported by wooden beams. There were two distinct buildings, one having a second floor and the other being a shack of sorts, while a stone courtyard extended in front of the house.

If anyone who wasn’t a bird saw this, they would not think it to be a house in a tiny village, but rather a mansion in a town’s suburbs. It would become clear that Murdock, for all his power and despite his decision to live in Pilpen, still harbored yearnings of grandeur.

However, Birb was a bird, and these thoughts flew over its head just as it flew over the house. The wizard was outside, sitting on a rocking chair and studying a book in his palm, but nobody would take notice of a bird among many. Therefore, Birb waited.

A few hours later, Melissa appeared, dressed in a green sleeveless gown with two keychains hanging from her shoulders. She approached, greeted Murdock politely, and they both headed inside. At that point, Birb rose from the far-off tree it was perched on and moved to a branch close to the window, giving it a full view of the house’s insides. It also sent a mental ripple to its master, requesting that he share in its senses.

All the way back to his tower, Jerry obliged, lying down and temporarily forgoing his own senses. Watching through a bird’s eye was very disorienting, even if Birb did its best to stay still, but he eventually got used to it.

When he did, he saw the house’s grand exterior and sharp interior, radiating power and authority and devotion to herbalism. Jars and books on shelves decorated the walls while several ingredients lay on a long workbench, filling the house with the scent of honey and strong, aromatic spices.

He also saw Murdock and Melissa busying themselves, but… If he could, he would have rubbed his eyes. That was definitely not herbalism.

Oh, no.

19

THE BURDEN OF TRUTH

Inside Murdock’s grand house, two naked bodies embraced each other. There were juices involved, sure, but this was decidedly not herbalism.

Jerry pulled his senses back to his own body and grabbed his head.

“Boney!” he shouted, opening his eyes. “They’re fucking!”

“They’re fucking what?” asked the skeleton, surprised at his master’s quick return.

“Each other! Melissa is having an affair with Murdock!”

“What? Oh, no!” Boney grabbed his skull.

“What do we do? Poor Ashman will be devastated! He loves her so much!”

“He will be devastated!” repeated the skeleton, jumping up from his seat. “What do we do?”

“I don’t know!” Jerry jumped upright, too. “This is so bad!”

They stared at each other in panic.

“AHH!” screamed Jerry.

“AHH!” screamed Boney.

“AHH!” screamed Headless, who was also in the room, running around like a headless chicken. He didn’t know what was going on but was more than happy to participate.

“I don’t want to tell Ashman,” Jerry said, pointing at Boney. “You do it.”

“What? I don’t want to tell him either!” Boney’s jaw clacked, and Jerry would have sworn his eyes were filled with compassion. “He will be devastated. He might even cry!”

“Then I’m certainly not telling him. Headless, you do it.”

“AHH!” Headless screamed again, still running around them. He was enjoying this.

“Okay, let’s all calm down,” Boney said. “There has to be some way to bring it up slowly.”

“Slowly? The man’s wife is banging another dude and has probably been at it for months! How do you bring that up slowly? ‘Hey, Ashman, nice tea! By the way, Melissa is eloping with Murdock.’ I don’t think so!”

“Okay, you have a point.” Boney raised a finger, suddenly calmer. “But you know what? Actually, maybe, we shouldn’t tell him.”

“That his wife is cheating? Why in the world would we hide that?”

“Calm down, Master. I know this sounds weird, but listen to me.” Boney leaned in, his gray cap giving him an air of wisdom. “Right now, things are not going great for Ashman, and his life is mostly on the rails. If he finds out about this, he will become miserable! Not to mention that, if you tell the mayor that his wife is cheating, there might be consequences for us. Maybe he will resent us for telling him the truth and destroying his life, or maybe Murdock will come here and burn us all in anger!”

“Boney,” Jerry said slowly, narrowing his eyes, “are you saying all this just to save our hides? I will not sacrifice another person for that.”

“I am, but consider how miserable he will be if he knows. It would totally rattle him to the bone!”

“But he will know the truth. Wouldn’t you want to know, Boney?”

“I have no such emotions anymore, Master. I know that Tom would have preferred not knowing if he—I—was still alive.”

“In any case, I don’t like that.” Jerry shook his head. “It might make him unhappy for now, but it’s way better in the long run. He should know the truth. Everyone should.”

“But, Master⁠—”

“No. I’m not hiding this, and I do not enjoy you being selfish.”

“Can you at least ask him first?” Boney cried out in despair.

“Ask him what?”

“If he wants to know.”

“How do I ask him that without telling him?”

“Well, you can be indirect about it…” Boney leaned in again, bringing his skull closer to Jerry’s face. “You can ask him philosophically. For example, would he prefer a beautiful lie or an ugly truth?”

“That’s absurd.” Jerry snorted, crossing his arms. “He would never pick the lie. His mind is not that weak.”

“You never know…” Boney replied enigmatically. “In any case, why not ask him? You have nothing to lose. And, if his answer does not satisfy you, then you can simply tell him and be done with it.”

“But I…” The necromancer bit his lips. “I don’t want Ashman to be sad… And I don’t want him to be a fool either… Oh, Boney, what should I do?”

“What I just told you, Master,” the skeleton insisted. “Ask him indirectly. Then, you can make the call. It is the right way. Let him decide for himself before you claim to know what’s best for another.”

Jerry pouted. He was greatly upset. Ashman was a good guy… Why did Melissa have to do that to him? Why was Murdock in on this? And, at the end of the day, why did the burden of revelation have to fall on Jerry, of all people?

As his initial panic wore off, he took a deep breath and calmed down. While cheating sucked, it was the truth. Ashman would be devastated, but bad things happen, and we get over them. It takes effort and pain, yet that’s the only way to truly live.

However, if Ashman chose to be left in the dark, would it be right for Jerry to make that decision himself, even if he knew it was the right one?

Probably not, he figured after some thought. Ashman was a grown person, and everyone had the right to be wrong.

Even if it sucked.

Ashman wouldn’t choose to remain in the dark… Would he?

“All right,” Jerry finally spoke. “I will do as you suggest, though I believe he will definitely make the right decision. And if he is unsure at all, then I will decide for him.”

“Excellent, Master.” Boney smiled. “When are you thinking to go?”

“Right now.”

He was not kidding. While Jerry was a laid-back person, he knew when something couldn’t wait. He had to get this over with or it would eat him from the inside. With any luck, he would arrive before Melissa returned to her tainted home.

Besides, the thoughts churned busily in his head, moving in circles. He’d already thought everything he had to, now, every moment spent waiting just tired him out for no reason. Jerry did not enjoy erratic thoughts.

Though it was still the beginning of winter outside. By the time Jerry found his goatskin cloak and put it on, worn his sturdy boots, and mentally prepared himself for the cold, a few minutes had passed. Then, taking Axehand and Foxy along for protection—who knew what Murdock might do—he set off.

The noon December sun was a toothed one. It hung high in the sky, shining bright, and yet its presence did little to alleviate the biting cold. At least the winter was still young, and it wasn’t that bad yet. Jerry realized that maybe he didn’t even need his coat.

The hour-long walk evaporated under his feet. As always, time stretched at Jerry’s will, and his anxiety did little to change that. Though his thoughts churned, feet trudging on, and he believed he could walk an infinity before getting bored or tired—walking for two months had its perks, apparently.

It was only when the village’s first houses filled his vision that he stopped to give instructions to his two bodyguards. They would remain hidden in the woods under a dripping pine tree, unbothered by the cold and ready to run over when Jerry called.

Then, he approached the loose formation of houses, no more than a few dozen, all made of earthstone, wood, and dried, hard mud. Not many villagers were out and about this time of the year, preferring to either busy themselves with work or enjoy the warmth of their stoves. With this much wood around, Jerry doubted anyone would go cold. Hungry, maybe, but not cold. The chimneys smoked.

Incidentally, this was his first time in the village after the bandit incident. He caught eyes peering at him from the windows, some in fear, some in wonder, and some in distaste. They made it clear they didn’t like him, which made Jerry sad.

No wonder most necromancers are evil, he thought with a sigh. If they’re ostracized, why not fight back?

Except he was here for a reason. Jerry’s feet were steady, and his heart was heavy. He approached the mayor’s house, with its stone walls and bulging tower at the back, under which hid a small chapel. The house’s owner was also the village priest.

Just as Jerry approached, uninvited and bearing the truth as a cursed gift, the door creaked open, and a red-robed form stepped out.

Murdock.

The wizard’s eyes met Jerry’s, and both were equally surprised.

“Necromancer,” Murdock said with a frown. He was as Jerry remembered him: red robes, piercing eyes, and a thin mustache. This time, he also wore a thick woolen coat over his robes, the obligatory red feather barely sticking out; the man didn’t take too well to winter, apparently.

“Murdock,” Jerry replied coldly. While he usually avoided rudeness, this man had harmed one of Jerry’s friends. He deserved no pleasantries.

“I see you finally elected to show your face.” The wizard crossed his arms behind his back, wearing a haughty look. “I thought you’d just stay hidden forever, ashamed of the great gift you miscarry.”

“I was here just the other day, actually, and I met some bandits you were supposed to stop. I did your work for you. You’re welcome.”

Murdock’s eyes narrowed. Out-wording your opponent was difficult when they’re armed with your own failures.

“One evil beats another,” he finally said, voice dripping venom. “Between the two, I don’t know which I would prefer; being humiliated after death might be even worse than death itself.”

Jerry raised a brow. Now, he was calm as ever, but he considered Murdock a bad guy, and bad guys needed to be served their dues.

“Death isn’t humiliating. On the other hand, the pitiful life you⁠—”

“Gentlemen!” Ashman smashed the door open and ran outside, speaking before he could even catch his breath. “Please, calm down. We are all part of the same village; let’s coexist, please!”

Jerry looked at the mayor, and his irritation dissolved into many complex emotions. The man was still rotund as ever, his face reddened and his hands already shivering; in his haste to come out and stop them, he had not put on a coat.

“Okay,” Jerry said simply.

Murdock directed a pointed look at the necromancer. “Very well,” he said haughtily. “I would suggest steering clear of evil influences, Ashman. Those who mess with the wolves get eaten.”

“Yes, yes, I will keep it in mind, Mother Manna be my witness,” replied the mayor. “Thank you both for heeding my words. Now, Jerry, would you mind coming inside? I’m freezing out here.”

With a snort and not another word, Murdock walked away. Jerry spared him a look before stepping toward the door.

“You don’t take well to winter, do you, Mayor?” he asked.

“Hmm? I do, actually, why?” Ashman replied, still tense from before. Jerry shrugged.

The door closed, the boots were cleaned, and soon, Jerry was resting on a soft chair, but not as soft as his. He felt a slight sense of achievement.

Melissa, who was in the kitchen, had only shouted a word of greeting instead of coming over. Jerry finally understood why she didn’t like him; she was sleeping with his enemy.

Ashman didn’t seem to mind, and he took a seat opposite the necromancer. He was wearing the shoes Jerry had made him; how nice. Seeing your work utilized was always a pleasure. It would have brought a smile to Jerry’s lips if not for the grim news he’d come to deliver. At least, Melissa wouldn’t hear them from the kitchen, not unless they shouted.

Jerry looked around, taking in the room with different eyes than last time. Having seen Murdock’s house, Melissa’s extravagant decorations made more sense; the two were alike.

“So,” Ashman began, fetching two glasses of milk—he seemed to prefer that over tea—“what brings you all the way out here?”

Jerry’s face was serious.

“Ashman,” he said, “I have a question for you.”

20

GRAND MISUNDERSTANDING

Mayor Ashman welcomed Jerry into his house, heart pounding wildly.

What’s the matter with those two? Okay, necromancers are dangerous, but they aren’t the devil! This one is even nice. Why does Murdock have to go and pick the hornet’s nest?

The truth was, he knew exactly why. Murdock, for all his power, could be a petty man. He enjoyed the authority his strength gave him, and Jerry’s presence threatened to take that away. After all, if Murdock wasn’t great at protecting the village and another alternative was available, why would the villagers choose to depend on him?

But, still. One had to be either a hero or an idiot to provoke a necromancer. Murdock was certainly not the first kind.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” Ashman said, guiding Jerry to his home’s softest chair. The necromancer had repeatedly expressed his preference for such seatings, and Ashman wasn’t willing to spoil the mood any further. “Can I treat you to something? Some milk, perhaps?”

“That would be excellent, thank you.” Jerry smiled, but Ashman could see the tense lines on his face. This was the first time he’d seen Jerry so thoughtful. Why? What had he come here for?

Ashman’s heart was clenched as he headed for the kitchen, pouring two cups of milk. Melissa raised a brow at him from where she stood hunched over a pot, preparing who knows what.

“He’s a guest,” Ashman whispered. “Be civil.”

She rolled her eyes. He sighed.

First Murdock, now Melissa. Why did everyone have to go and provoke a harbinger of calamity? He loved his wife, but she could be stupidly stubborn at times.

“Here,” he said, returning to the living room.

“Thank you.” Jerry grabbed the cup, taking a whiff. “It smells nice.”

“Always does. Our little Sia is quite plump right now; we fatten her in the autumn to last the winter.”

“Fortune in misfortune,” replied the necromancer, nodding.

The mayor looked him over. This man had walked an hour through the cold and wasn’t even bothered. Necromancy certainly had its perks. Absent-mindedly, the mayor wondered whether all necromancers were this laid-back, before discarding the notion entirely. Not that he’d ever seen another, but they were known as evil for a reason. Probably.

“So,” Ashman got to the point, “what brings you all the way out here?”

Jerry’s face was serious.

“Ashman,” he said, “I have a question for you.”

Ashman’s heart clenched again. The necromancer, the lord of the dead, appeared to have something dark in his mind. It couldn’t be good.

“I’m all ears,” he replied, trusting that his inner thoughts were well-hidden.

“My question is simple. If,” Jerry began, and already he seemed to be hesitating, “if there was a… secret, let’s say. A dark secret that, if you knew, would make your life miserable. Would you like to know? Or would you rather sit in blissful ignorance, unaware of the truth around you but happy in a world of lies?”

Ashman’s heart was pounding so heavily he thought it might jump out of his chest. Dark secret? The necromancer had a dark secret?

“A secret?” he asked.

“Yes.” Jerry nodded seriously. “A harsh one.”

This was bad. This was really bad. Ashman’s mind immediately jumped to the worst. Was Jerry raiding other villages at night, sparing Pilpen only to use them as a front and for supplies? Was he torturing people in his basement, only maintaining a peaceful façade for fun and convenience?

Ashman had visited the man’s tower. Hell, he had slept over. Just how close to a fate worse than death had he come!

Oh, he knew necromancers weren’t to be trusted. Murdock had warned him; why did he not listen? And now Jerry was asking this. Had he decided to come clean? Had his dreadful operations grown too large to remain hidden? Would he threaten Ashman to ensure his cooperation? Would he, the mayor, become a hostage?

Would everyone die? And, even if not, then what? When the evil deeds were revealed and the Milaris Royal Guard came in force, when they killed the necromancer, what would happen to Ashman? What would happen to the village? They would be treated as accomplices, that’s what would happen, and be culled for good measure.

Ashman gulped.

From the kitchen, the sounds of stirring and heat bubbles popping had stopped; Melissa was listening, she always was. Had Jerry’s revelation shaken her, too? It was only natural.

But no, he had to maintain his cool. Right now, Jerry was giving him an opportunity. If he played his cards right, he might be able to save himself. He might be able to save the village.

He met the necromancer’s eye. The man’s dark intentions were clear there; the savagery, the mercilessness, the insanity, all hidden behind a thin layer of fake concern and joviality. How had Ashman trusted him in the first place?

I was a fool… but not any longer.

“I—” he said, coughing in his hand to stop his voice from trembling. “I would certainly not want to know.”

Jerry’s eyes flickered, but Ashman could not see through them. What was the necromancer thinking? Was he pleased? Or was he angry at the complication?

Regardless, there was only one path for Ashman to take, only one path which led to survival. He had to play along with the necromancer, letting him act as he pleased while pretending to know nothing—and actually knowing nothing. That way, when the Guard knocked on his door, he could claim ignorance, and even their mind-reading inquisitors would be none the wiser.

Knowledge was dangerous.

“I would most certainly not want to know,” he reaffirmed his previous words. “In fact, I would even go so far as to ignore any… subtle hints at what is going on.”

Was Jerry understanding his words? Were they playing the same game? Ashman was offering free rein in exchange for ignorance.

“If knowledge is harsh,” he continued, “then I would rather remain ignorant, unaware of what brews beneath the surface. The beautiful world of lies suits me. I would like my life, and the life of everyone in this village, to remain undisturbed… if possible, I mean.”

Jerry’s eyes were narrowed. Was he not following? Ashman decided to be a bit blunter, “In exchange for peace, for ignorance, I would turn a blind eye to anything I could possibly turn a blind eye to. Please.”

Jerry let the silence stew. Was he thinking it over? Was he debating what to do? Or was he waiting for Ashman to say something more? But what could he say? He wrinkled his mind, but nothing came up. If he spoke any further, he would be rambling, and that might annoy Jerry.

Suddenly, Ashman was all too aware that the necromancer could kill him in a heartbeat if he wanted to.

“Are you sure?” Jerry finally spoke.

“Absolutely.” Ashman nodded readily. He could not show hesitation. “My words come from the heart. I am certain beyond the shadow of a doubt.”

Jerry’s frown deepened. He looked at the mayor for a moment, and the latter held his gaze, lips tightened. Then, the necromancer closed his eyes and released a long, tired sigh. He shook his head, his thoughts known only to himself.

“Are you really, really sure?” he asked again, and Ashman responded decisively.

“Absolutely.”

“Then so be it.” Jerry leaned back in his chair, the tension leaving him, only to be replaced by weariness—another façade, no doubt. “I will remain silent. Your decision is your own, and so is your burden.”

“Thank you,” Ashman replied honestly, not letting his relief show. He had succeeded! He would live!

They remained in silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts.

“Well then, I will be going.” The necromancer finished his milk and stood up. “Sorry for the abrupt departure, Ashman—I just have a lot of things to do back home. Time waits for no one, and especially not for me. It’s usually the opposite.”

“That is no problem, no problem at all.” Ashman also stood. “Let me walk you to the door.”

Jerry smiled. He picked his coat off a wooden hanger and reached for the doorknob, only to stop at the last moment.

“Oh,” he said, “one last thing. Do you have any way to contact the Milaris Royal Guard?”

Ashman froze.

This is it, he thought. He’s afraid I’ll turn him in. I’m going to die.

“No,” he blurted out. It was a lie, of course, but what could he do? He panicked.

“Well, that’s a shame.” Jerry sighed, turning the yellow doorknob. “Then, I’ll see you around, Ashman. Pop in for a drink anytime. The doors of my tower are always open to you and your lovely wife.”

Something felt off about those last words, something about the way Jerry said them, but Ashman had no mind for that. With the door open, a cutting breeze met his face, as if framing the necromancer’s grim silhouette. The cold was terrible already, and it would only grow worse. This would be a bad winter—in more ways than one.

“Absolutely,” Ashman replied politely. “We would love to come!”

Jerry smiled and nodded. “See you, Ashman. May the Wall hold.”

“May it hold forever.”

Jerry turned around. Ashman closed the door, perhaps a bit too quickly, and slumped against it.

Melissa showed up the very next moment. “Ashman? Are you okay?”

He was not. He was pale, shivering, and wanted to empty his stomach right there on the floor. He reached for Melissa, closing his eyes and hugging her tightly, finding solace in his lover’s embrace. For the first time in a while, she hugged back—but behind his shoulder, her face was taut.

“Oh, my love,” he whispered, voice shaking, “what is going to happen to us?”

He gently caressed her hair, letting himself relax in her embrace. He was a man who loved.

Standing in the cold, which didn’t bother him much, Jerry gazed at the overcast sky.

Ashman had made his decision, and as irrational as it seemed to Jerry, he was resolute. So be it. With a deep, sad sigh, Jerry’s heart lightened. This was no longer his burden to carry.

The sadness would take some time to go away, but eventually, it would melt into all that was Jerry. It always had, and it always would. People could make their own decisions. If Ashman wanted to live such a life, then Jerry would oblige, and he would no longer think about this.

He looked back. Through a corner of the window, he could see Ashman and Melissa hugging each other. He shook his head. Everyone had the right to be wrong. He just hoped Melissa and Murdock suffered.

I will respect your will, poor Ashman, but secrets rarely persist. Fate will strike soon enough, and when it does, it will not consider your feelings… But fine. For now, let secrets remain secrets—and when the time comes, and it will come, I pray that you end up well, because you really aren’t a bad person. Just a weak one.

Jerry took a deep breath.

With a final sigh, he took off toward his tower. He could have visited Derek, but he wasn’t in the mood. Besides, Derek would visit again soon, as they had agreed last time. Ashman would also come, hopefully. Even though Jerry’s opinion of him was damaged, he didn’t choose his friends based on the strength of their souls, though his father often advised the opposite. Maybe he was wrong, for once.

Until then, Jerry had work to do. Ashman could not contact the Guard, so Jerry had no way of contacting them either.

Ah! His eyes brightened. Couldn’t I just send Birb over?

With that bright idea, his steps regained their spring. He would contact the Guard, practice necromancy, and make shoes—not necessarily in that order.

He would also spend time with his lovely undead and drink with Derek, hopefully Ashman as well. In the coming months, his hearth would be lit, and his heart would be warm. It would be a good winter—in more ways than one.

And so, his mind was at ease. As for Ashman and Melissa’s story, in the grand scheme of things, it wouldn’t matter much.

Right?

21

THE IRREGULAR NECROMANCER

Of the many undead varieties, I find the skeletal ones most appealing. They are clean, versatile, and do not smell. But what they make up for in convenience, they lack in prowess.

Ghouls, the incarnations of those who died of starvation, are the exact opposite. While their grim sustenance is hard to maintain, requiring a steady supply of corpses, their demonic frenzy is a boon that few other undead can match, especially in large-scale battles.

Wraiths are also interesting. They are created when natural energies animate a body whose soul is unwilling to reoccupy its former shell. Body and soul are then animated separately, creating a combination of zombie and wraith which often travel together while having each other.

It irks me greatly that the most fascinating of undead are those I cannot easily produce. If I could get my hands on even a single dragon corpse, however… Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a skeletal dragon to fly on.

- From the personal notes of Ozborne the Cursed

The weeks passed.

The snow began falling in late December, and it did not stop. December led to January, which bled into February. For Jerry, it was a warm time.

His days were spent relaxing with his undead. In fact, he enforced a half-day mandatory rest period for everyone, every day. Even if the undead were tireless, he wanted them to discover how to have fun, too.

Boney taught Jerry checkers, and they constructed a rough board. Headless was learning how to dance, and he also enjoyed throwing his head up and catching it again like a ball—curiously, he had not yet begun to rot. Boboar enjoyed barreling through the forest snow, while Foxy liked endlessly traversing the tree branches. Axehand was trying to sculpt wood and failing spectacularly, but having his fun, nonetheless. As for Birb, it perched on everyone’s shoulders, watching them do their thing.

“Hand me the ball, Boboar.”

“OINK!”

With a happy squeal, Boboar finished rolling up his ball of snow and picked it up in his tusks before handing it to Jerry.

“Good boy.” The necromancer laughed, stuffing it on top of another, larger ball. “Is this okay, Boney?”

“A bit to the left, Master,” replied the skeleton, calmly sipping on his tea. His legs were knee-deep in snow, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“All right!” Jerry rolled the ball a bit. “We’re almost there! Headless, can I have the head? No, not your head, the snowman’s. Thanks!”

With a final plop, Jerry placed the head-sized ball of snow atop the other two. It was neatly decorated with a carrot and two dark rocks, courtesy of Foxy. Birb perched on top of the snowman’s head, completing it.

“We did it, guys. Hooray!”

The undead cheered, throwing their hands, snouts, beak, and head in the air. Jerry smiled brightly. He loved being a necromancer.

A man-sized snowman now stood in front of him, made up of three neatly stacked snowballs. Two sticks stuck out the sides, serving as arms, while a pair of boots peeked out from underneath it. Snow or not, Jerry was a firm believer in everyone deserving shoes. As he’d been practicing, he had also gifted some pairs to his humanoid undead, while he was secretly working on animal versions.

Now, he proudly took in the sight of his undead cheering, their feet shiny and fully covered. They were a disorderly bunch, ranging from a skeletal double-boar to a headless zombie, but that did not limit their joy at all.

Around them, the midday sun reflected off the blanket of snow, illuminating Jerry’s mountainside. The snow was flat around his tower, undisturbed, save for a few footprints, while glinting stalactites hung from the branches of distant trees.

It was beautiful.

“This will be our guardian,” Jerry declared, pointing at the snowman, “and its name shall be… Snow White!”

“What an imaginative name, Master,” Boney said. “Have you considered writing a book?”

“I’m not paying you for comments, Boney.”

“You aren’t paying me at all, Master.”

“Exactly.” Jerry gave everyone a wide grin. “Now, let’s go see what Axehand is doing. There is no way he can defeat us.”

They cheered again.

Axehand, as it turned out, was quite competitive. When Jerry announced they’d be building a snowman, Axehand had grunted in a grand declaration of building his own, superior snowman. He also grunted away any assistance, claiming he was more than enough.

But, of course, how could one skeleton match the work of many?

Which was why their jaws dropped, literally for some and metaphorically for others, when they laid eyes on the tree-sized monstrosity that stood in a clearing. Its bottom snowball was as tall as Jerry, while its arms were made of actual tree branches instead of sticks. There were even large snowshoes underneath its base! A direct challenge to Jerry!

The snowman’s head reached over twelve feet in height, and leaning on it, perched on the second snowball, stood Axehand.

“What the—” Jerry was lost for words. “How!”

The double-skeleton grunted smugly. Birb left its perch on Headless’s shoulders and flew all the way to the snow giant’s head, circling around it and chirping happily.

“Great job, Axehand!” Jerry shouted from below. “What is this called?”

“Gmh,” the skeleton grunted, in the specific way which meant ‘The Winter Shoemaker.’

“Shoemaker? Like me?” Jerry grabbed his heart. “Axehand, is that⁠—”

“Master.”

A grave voice interrupted him, coming from behind. Turning around, there was Boney, his fists clenched and a crimson fire burning in his empty eye sockets—literally. Jerry didn’t even know that was possible.

“I apologize for my complacency, Master. I have failed you.”

“Boney, are you oka⁠—”

“We cannot let this traitor surpass our master!” Boney shouted. At once, crimson flames lit up in the eyes of all his undead. They shimmered with determination. In Axehand’s eyes, similar flames had been lit, and he grunted in a way that clearly meant, ‘bring it, losers.’

“We will not let this pass!” Boney cried out, and the rest of his team cheered him on. “We must defeat this blasphemer. We will make Snow White the largest, greatest, most awesome snowwoman the Three Kingdoms have ever seen!”

Jerry paled. Oh, no.

And so began the snow-building wars, which lasted for an entire week.

Despite their leisure time, nobody slacked off. Even amidst the falling snow, the fence was proceeding well. On the days when the snow was especially thick, Boboar’s massive body came in handy, as he used his tusks and head to shovel the white stuff out of the way. Some got through his bones, but it was nothing a second pass couldn’t fix.

By the end of January, it was finished; a black, solid encirclement of the tower.

Jerry also worked hard. He spent most days down in his basement, experimenting with new undead designs. He remembered his early days of necromancy, when it was just him in the forest and his time was spent experimenting, just like now. Those were golden times, and the days flew by.

He recalled a special undead he’d once made, the tusked fox. With his current undeads’ assistance in corpse collection, he could recreate this feat once again, creating a fox with a large boar tusk sticking out of its head. The little thing was funny, having great trouble walking like that, but still capable of climbing trees and falling on things. Preferably, those things would involve Jericho’s head.

Jerry also created a human variant of this skeleton, enhancing it with bear claws and boar tusks. It resembled a bulky werewolf. The result was quite intimidating, reminding Jerry of Shorty.

Speaking of bears, Jerry had also managed to find a bear corpse, which he’d promptly and excitedly ordered Boboar and Foxy to carry over. When it was time to raise, this one wouldn’t need any modifications; bears were frightening creatures by themselves. If only he could find a second one and create a double-bear…

Unfortunately, that didn’t happen.

He also created various other kinds of undead, experimenting with the limits of his magic. The most amusing one was a four-armed humanoid skeleton able to wield four tools at the same time. Apparently, when two souls were grafted together, some things left but others stayed; this skeleton could effectively operate all its limbs.

The idea of an octopus-like skeleton also crossed Jerry’s mind, but it proved far too difficult to implement. To create the four-armed skeleton, he’d had to modify the shoulder sockets to fit a second arm. It was barely possible, and fitting four of them was simply too much.

He’d even tried adding another pair of shoulders right below the actual ones, to little success. While it technically worked, the four lower arms were way too stiff and constantly got in the way of the upper arms; and that’s without mentioning how malfunctioning this skeleton’s mind was. Apparently, smashing four souls together was not a good idea—go figure.

When the octoskeleton slammed against a wall in its confusion for the third time, Jerry had to call this experiment quits. The four-armed skeleton would do.

Of course, he could not maintain all these skeletons. While his capacity for supporting undead was steadily growing, to the point where he could easily maintain up to seven on a constant basis, any more than that tired him out. Besides the skeletons that had been around since autumn, all these new experiments were de-animated and left in a corner of the basement for later use. Even the octopus one—you never knew when it might come in handy, and it did have a lot of hands.

Jerry had also made all the available bodies into skeletons. Everything else had begun to smell at some point, so Jerry ordered the bodies to stand up and head waaay outside, then he’d de-animated them, animated just the skeletons, and ordered them to come back inside after washing up. It was clean work, and Jerry felt proud for thinking it up.

When he was not playing checkers, building undead, or relaxing in his soft chair by the fire, Jerry also made shoes.

His true occupation had not seen much use yet, but he did not intend on letting it rot. Some days, he made clogs, boots, even a silly version of summer shoes he called flip-flops. Working with his full mental faculties was a lot of fun, and it allowed him to see shoemaking in a new light. It wasn’t just his livelihood now, he also liked it!

If only the villagers came to order shoes… But, well, they’d get around. For now, after equipping all his humanoid undead, Jerry stored any new shoes in a corner of the basement. Maybe someone would buy them later.

At the same time, he worked on his secret project, shoes for animals. He had no idea how to make these, so it took some experimenting. Eventually, he ended up with what he imaginatively called ‘animal shoes.’

These were similar to human shoes in shape, but with a much shorter length, as foxes and boars didn’t really have feet. They were simply leather wrapped around a network of wooden supports, with adjustable pins to let him fit them directly to each animal’s paws. He could have just taken their measurements, but he wanted to make it a surprise.

“There you go, Boboar, Foxy.” He handed the shoes over, grinning cheek to cheek. They only stared at him, not understanding, but when he began adjusting the shoes around their paws and hooves, their bony faces lit up with joy. They squealed and yelped in pure happiness, and they would have even licked him if they still had tongues.

For the next few weeks, Foxy and Boboar would occasionally go and stand next to other undead, simply waiting for their victim to notice the brand-new shoes and compliment them. Jerry felt some pity for Boney, who had to endure the brunt of these attacks, but the joy of his undead filled his own heart with warmth.

However, while Jerry’s days flowed from one to the next, another incident came to disrupt his calm.

“Master,” Boney’s serious voice echoed through the basement, interrupting Jerry’s experiments.

“What is it, Boney?” he asked, looking up from the skeleton of a tailed human.

“Your presence is required at the entrance. Urgently.”

Worry squeezed Jerry’s heart. Had Jericho returned? They were not ready. With hurried steps, he climbed the stairs and reached the tower’s entrance, pushed the door open, and⁠—

“Surprise!”

Jerry froze. All his undead stood before the tower, their grunts and shouts and chirps and squeals accentuating Boney’s excited shout. In the center of them all stood a wooden statue depicting Jerry himself, smiling kindly and holding a shoe.

Jerry gawked. It was very detailed and must have taken a very long time to carve.

“Guys, what is this?” he asked, unable to think clearly. The undead all had happy expressions plastered on their lovely faces—as much as bones could show.

“We made a gift for you, Master,” Boney said. “You have created and cared for us like a loving father. We have no way to repay you—besides our eternal servitude—but we hope this gift can at least bring a smile to your face. We want to let you know that we don’t serve you only because the laws of magic compel us—we serve you because we want to.”

Faced with all these affectionate gazes, Jerry’s heart melted.

“Ohhh, it’s beautiful!” He jumped forth, reaching the gathered undead in two strides. He opened his arms wide, embracing them all in a slightly painful hug. “You guys are the best undead I could ever ask for!”

They smiled. He smiled. The statue was put up by the entrance, signifying who Jerry was to any visitors and being the greatest piece of decoration this tower could ever have.

And, for a few short months, everyone was happy.

22

TIME TO ACT

While the winter months passed timely, with all their joys and difficulties, Jerry still had the occasional guests over—or rather, guest.

“Shit, Jerry.” Derek slammed his cup on the table. “It’s freezing in here!”

“The cold never bothered me anyway.” Jerry shrugged. “The fire should be roaring soon; give it a moment.”

“I will, if my teeth stop clattering.”

It wasn’t the first time Derek visited. He dropped by once every few weeks for a drink, a chat, and to bring Jerry supplies from the village. The forest could provide many things, but tanned leather and alcohol were beyond Jerry’s means.

Ashman hadn’t visited. He said he was busy, and Jerry believed him.

“How’s the village?” the necromancer asked after the fire matured. “It’s been a while since I visited.”

Derek huddled inside a pack of blankets, shivering. The ice glints in his beard were only just melting; it still impressed Jerry how prone to cold the man was—as well as everyone in the village. Perhaps being a necromancer also strengthened the body?

“It’s winter,” Derek replied. “Not much is happening. Everyone stays inside with their families, hoping to last till spring. But there shouldn’t be a problem. How are things here?”

“Pretty amazing.” Jerry grinned. “We took our time, played in the snow a bit.”

“Yes, I noticed the snowman that almost matched your tower in height. How did you even make that?”

“It was a tough week.” Jerry shrugged. This time, he shivered as well. Boney’s slave-driving enthusiasm was only matched by his fervor, and the master had soon become the servant. It really had been a tough week.

“The wooden statue is also nice,” Derek said, “but you’re weird, you know? If I were you, I’d spend more time worrying about my impending doom and less time capturing my likeness in wood.”

“Do you mean Jericho? I’m doing what I can.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I’ve built a bunch of new skeletons, ready to fight for our home. I’ve also had the undead practice with weapons; the dead bandits had plenty of swords. As for myself, I feel my powers growing by the day. I can support more than seven undead if I want to, now; it’s just a bit extraneous. We might become too many to properly hang out.”

Derek barked a laugh.

“That’s a worry alright,” he muttered, gaze lost in the fireplace. The flames danced and swirled, rising above the crackling wood and reflecting in Derek’s thoughtful irises.

Jerry noticed. “Is everything all right? You seem off.”

“Well, I…” The hunter hesitated, his blankets moving up and down with his breath. “I’m just a bit worried, I guess. I’ve been spending a lot of time with Holly, since we’ve been staying inside all winter, and I… Well, she’s off.”

Jerry raised a brow. “Off?”

“Off. It’s like her mind is elsewhere. She doesn’t ask me when we’re moving to Milaris anymore, but she still takes care of her dresses. I’ve caught her smiling when looking at them, but it doesn’t make sense; the dresses remind her of the city, where I forbid her to go. It’s suspicious.”

“Maybe you’re looking too deep into things. It doesn’t sound like anything solid to worry about.”

“I know my daughter, Jerry. Something is wrong, I can feel it. Maybe it’s that boy she’s been meeting, that’s the only thing I can think of, but I don’t want to—I mean, it’s difficult.”

Jerry nodded politely and Derek kept going.

“My wife ran away from home because her parents wanted to control her choices. I don’t want the same thing to happen to me. I trust Holly. I’ve raised her to be a responsible girl, and I don’t want to interfere, but…”

“But you can’t help worrying,” Jerry completed, and the hunter nodded, almost whimpering.

“Yes…” he admitted, pain in his voice. “I can feel that something is wrong, and I really want to dive in there and solve whatever problem she’s facing, but I don’t want to be that parent. I want to trust her. Even if there is some problem, she will solve it herself, right?”

He looked up at Jerry, eyes filled with concern. “Right?”

“Mhm.”

The necromancer nodded, reclining in his heavenly soft chair and sipping from his cup; it was wheat wine, a staple of the traveling merchants. Quite bitter, but it would do. Alcohol was one of the few things allowed to be bitter.

“As Boney was telling me some time ago,” Jerry said, “everyone has the right to be wrong. There are gray areas, but the point in this case is that we should let children make their own decisions, even if they risk messing up something important. You see, we need to make mistakes if we want to grow. Risking and failing are necessities. Even if you know better, if you don’t allow her to mess up and clean after herself, then you are depriving her of the right to grow. That is not right.”

“It is not right…” Derek muttered. “But what if she gets in trouble? Like, real trouble? What if the boy she’s meeting, be it John or Georgie or Blake, is secretly an asshole? I can’t let her mess up that bad!”

“It’s a risk you may have to take.”

“He could break her heart!”

“Hence the risk.”

“She will be scarred!” Derek banged his fist on the table, his tension getting the better of him. “Sorry, but I can’t let bad things happen to my daughter! She’s just a child, and the world is a cruel place. She is not ready to walk alone.”

“And when will she be?”

Derek hesitated. “When she learns herbalism and grows up a bit. When she has some experience.”

“And how will she get that experience if you don’t let her scrape her knees?” Jerry asked. “Right now, she’s in a safe, controlled environment messing with teenage love affairs. What better time to try standing by herself? Would you rather leave her alone in Milaris to experiment with work and money, where the silver tongues will devour her whole and spit out the bones?”

Derek grumbled, thinking about it. “I guess not…”

“Then, give her some space now. Let her learn how to be independent and make her own decisions, even if they’re bad at first. In the worst-case, her heart will crack a bit, but she’s only sixteen. She’ll have plenty of time to mend it in Milaris. If she messes up later, it might not be fixable.”

Derek grunted, resembling Axehand. “I guess you’re right.”

“I said the same things you started with.” The necromancer smiled. “You already trust her and give her space; I merely helped with the doubts.”

“Yeah. You can be smart when you want to.” Derek sighed, shedding most of his blankets and only keeping one; the windows were shut and the fire strong. “I honestly thought you were off in the head when I first met you.”

“I am off in the head.” Jerry laughed. “Just in an unusual way. Have I told you about the time I spent fifteen years semi-conscious? My magic is an urge as natural as pissing, and holding it in for such a long time—from eleven to twenty-six years old—really messed up my brain. I barely have any recollections of that period. I was basically sleepwalking. I couldn’t make friends, I failed at anything I tried to do, and even my parents thought I was mentally unfit. My disappointment and self-anger didn’t help things, making me bottle up even harder. By the time I stopped pretending I wasn’t a necromancer, something in my head had gotten burned, or atrophied, or both.”

“Your life sounds like a nightmare.”

“It’s alright. Right now, it’s more of a dream.”

Derek shed his last blanket, revealing the tunic and leather vest that hid underneath. “You’re a good man, Jerry… I hope you survive that Jericho bastard.”

“Eh.” He shrugged. “If things go south, can I count on you?”

Derek sobered up real quick. He deliberated his next words heavily before speaking.

“You’re my friend, Jerry, and I’ll help you as much as I can, but I will not leave my daughter orphaned for a lost cause. My assistance must be limited. Sorry.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured. It’s okay. Maybe he’ll just let me off—and if I die, I die. It’s no big deal.”

“There it is again,” Derek said. “You being off. That’s exactly it; you treat everything as unimportant. I mean, who can speak of death so casually?”

“A necromancer.”

“…That makes sense.”

Jerry smiled. “Let’s drink, my friend. To Pilpen, which will certainly accept me.”

“To Pilpen, which might never do.”

Their cups smashed against each other, sending some liquor to the floor, and they downed the rest.

“And, Jerry?” Derek said, wiping his mouth. “Thank you. For everything.”

Jerry smiled brightly. “No problem.”

“Sir!” A burly man stood at attention. He was hunched and rough, holding his sword in the distinct way one holds a bonking shovel. A bunch of teeth were missing from his mouth, and, on top of everything else, a look of permanent incomprehension was plastered on his face.

“At ease, soldier.” Captain Reymond waved a hand, letting the hillbilly breathe again. Tiredness hid behind the captain’s serious face. “Report.”

“Aye, sir. Tha rivers are beginning ta flow again, sir.”

“The snow is melting…”

Captain Reymond placed his helmet under his arm, opening the window to look outside. From the guard tower they currently occupied, he could see far, far away.

The snow glistened on the mountainsides and stacked on the trees, but it was already lower than it had been all winter. The temperature was rising, and dry patches of land would soon appear. A fox zoomed through the woods, darting from one branch to the other. Behind everything, the sun shone through the mountain’s crystal-clear air.

It would have been a beautiful sight if not for the charred remains of a village below them. Leramis, it had been called, and it had been under their protection. Home to a hundred men, women, and children. A scant two days ago, it had been burned to the ground, and they hadn’t been in time to help.

Exhaustion crept over the captain’s face again, accompanied by smoldering fury. Only the falling snow delayed his revenge; and now, it was gone. Captain Reymond could stop himself no longer.

“Men!” he roared, sending seven more Billies hurtling off their beds and rushing to report. One tripped on the stairs, rolling down their entire length, while two more failed to properly tie their shoelaces—the Guard had a proper shoemaker, of course—and had to stop to retry.

When all eight were finally arrayed in front of him, standing proudly at attention, his heart bled.

What a sorry lot.

These people had no business being soldiers, and yet, they could not be excused from their duties. They’d enlisted of their own volition, and would either rise to the task or die. Fortunately for them, Captain Reymond had the skills to keep them alive, if only they listened carefully.

Hiding his sigh, Reymond put on his helmet, staring at his troops through the eye slit.

“Prepare everything,” he said, “and rest well. I will be the one to keep watch tonight. We leave at dawn.”

“Where to, sir?” asked one of them, and Reymond stared straight at him; the man flinched.

“To get revenge for the people we failed,” he declared loudly. “To fulfill our duties as protectors of the land. To become heroes or die trying. The Wall isn’t the only place we protect, soldiers; we fight for the entire Kingdom of Escarbot!”

The eight soldiers cheered, each more excited than the last. The possibility of death went completely over their heads. Reymond turned around, once again hiding his sigh. At least, he was experienced in guerilla warfare. These farmers just might survive long enough to be proper soldiers.

He looked out of the window, gaze lost in the heart of the mountain forest.

“Prepare yourselves,” he declared proudly, framed by the cheers of his men, “for, in a few days, Jericho the Green will fall to our blades.”

23

A FATHER’S FURY

Tom and Jerry stood atop the tower, gazing at the lands beyond. All across the mountain peaks, forests, and valleys, the world sparkled like a mirror broken into a million pieces.

“The snow is melting,” Jerry said.

“It is, Master…” Boney sighed. “Our time is running out.”

“And the Billies have still not returned.”

Back in the early days of November, the squad of soldiers led by Captain Reymond had demanded that Jerry leave the tower. He refused, and they’d promised to return with their superiors. Later, when Jericho similarly came and threatened Jerry to join him, those soldiers had become his ray of hope.

Alas, despite the entire winter having passed, the Billy squad had not yet returned, and any attempts at having Birb deliver a message to Milaris had failed, too. The tiny bird was physically incapable of carrying any sort of wooden case that far, and the paper by itself got terribly soaked by the falling snow and moisture. He’d even tried securing an eagle’s body for this job, but to no success.

Now, Jericho’s deadline had arrived. Jerry would either submit to him, joining the bandits… or perish.

“And the mayor has no way to contact the Guard either…” Jerry shook his head. “We’re out of options, Boney. Before Jericho arrives, we must flee.”

“Are we really going to leave everything behind, Master?” The skeleton’s voice carried a hint of pain. “Shorty’s revenge, the fence, the basement, your soft chair…”

“We’re taking the soft chair. As for the others, we’ll have to leave them behind for now. I won’t risk you all for a lost cause… This tower was a nice home, but all things come to an end. Let’s not delay. Jericho could arrive any day now. Have the others pack up and let’s go.”

“Yes, Master.”

Boney agreed readily, but how could Jerry not know what the skeleton was thinking? Not just Boney, every single one of his undead had a bitter fire burning in their souls. For them, Jerry was their Master, their world. To see him forced to flee, to see another person cause him pain… How could they not be consumed by burning anger and seething hatred?

Alas, nothing could be done.

The two turned around and left the terrace, each hastening to make their own preparations. They’d packed many things already, but some couldn’t be handled until the last moment.

Skeletons and a zombie ran around packing and preparing, and the entire tower was bustling with activity. Jerry, meanwhile, sat on the doorstep and looked at the trees and mountain ahead.

Unlike his previous journey through the forests, he was not alone this time. He refused to leave behind any of his beloved undead. They would travel as a group, and it would work out.

Jerry really didn’t want to leave. Not only was his tower here, which had become a warm home, but his friends, Derek and Ashman, were in Pilpen, too. He’d finally found a village willing to accept or at least tolerate him, and now he was forced to abandon everything and walk away again.

This time, things would be even more difficult. What village would accept an entire host of undead? At least, they had an entire nine months until next winter—plenty of time to visit dozens of villages. If things didn’t work out, constructing their own home in the wilderness would be the next best thing.

Jerry would like the occasional human contact, but he wasn’t willing to abandon his undead friends. Where he went, they would follow, and of that there was no debate.

In truth, other than fleeing, they discussed several alternatives during the long winter nights, but none were promising.

The ideal scenario would be if Jerry had the power to destroy the entire bandit group. Not only would he rid himself of them, but he would also save many surrounding villages and people—the Greenskin bandits plundered, robbed, killed, raped, kidnapped, assaulted, blackmailed, and were quite unpleasant neighbors overall.

Jerry wanted to help everyone. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the strength. Jericho’s monstrous power had been evident. As much as Jerry wanted to act like a hero, he was a good guy, not a stupid guy. He was unwilling to let himself and his undead friends die for nothing.

Another alternative would be to contact the Milaris Royal Guard for assistance, but alas, they had not shown up. Moreover, if they really wanted to deal with the Greenskin bandits, they would have done so long ago.

Therefore, as much as it pained Jerry, fleeing was his only option. He wouldn’t think too much. If he did think, he wouldn’t be Jerry.

Standing up from the doorstep, he whistled and went inside to help with the preparations. They had to leave soon.

However, fate loves toying with mortals. Unbeknownst to Jerry, just as he was preparing to leave this place forever, another person was inadvertently, and very unfortunately for himself, working to keep him here.

Somewhere in the woods, in a small hut partly sheltered from the elements, Holly sat on Brad’s lap and kissed him passionately.

Her palms were on his chest while his hands wandered over her body, under her clothes. They caressed her belly, then rose higher until they reached her small chest.

She gasped and pulled away a little, causing his hands to slip back down.

“Brad…” she said in a trembling voice. She gulped. “Can—Can we please go slower?”

“Don’t worry, baby,” he said. “It’s okay.”

He pulled her back into his embrace, passionately locking her mouth with his, muffling her protests. His hands rose, once again reaching for her chest, and they firmly grabbed on. She squirmed helplessly.

Holly’s mind was hazy. She felt vulnerable, not in control. Was she ready? Was she not? How would she know? She did not want his hands there, but when she pushed them, he refused to budge. His tongue was still entangled with hers, drawing her into a sea of pink, and her mind was in total disarray.

Was she ready? Was it too fast? Too slow? They’d known each other for months now, and she always kept him at bay, insisting on taking things slow. Now, he insisted, too. If he really wanted to, shouldn’t she just let him? He had been patient for her. She could be brave for him.

And yet, her chest was feeling uncomfortable. His hands squeezed and pulled greedily, and she was aching a bit, and was not at all sure whether she was enjoying this or not. Everything was unclear, lost in his arms.

Even if she didn’t like it, this was natural, right? She should be brave, right?

One of his hands suddenly let go, and she instantly felt relief. Then, the same hand descended, reaching her naval region and heading lower. Fireworks went off in her brain. Her pulse skyrocketed. She panicked. She tried to pull away, but he held her close, smothering her with his manly kiss.

No… No!

Brad’s hand touched somewhere it really shouldn’t.

Holly yelped and jumped away like a cat, unable to contain herself. She did not want this. She could not do it. She was not ready.

Raising her eyes, she met Brad’s frown, and guilt smothered in shame immediately washed over her.

“Brad…” she said weakly, panting and with her heart beating as quickly as a rabbit’s. “Please, can we please wait, just a little bit more? Please.”

Brad’s eyes carried a dark storm. Her pleas fell on deaf ears.

“Wait?” he spat out, clearly dissatisfied. “We’ve already waited for months. You want me to wait even more?”

“I-I don’t⁠—”

“No. It’s already been too long.” He crossed his arms, striking her with a hard glare. “Come here or we are over.”

Holly’s eyes widened to the limit. She shivered.

“No, I—But… Please, I lov⁠—”

“Come here!” he thundered. She froze, unable to move.

“You cowardly bitch!” Brad snorted. “I’ve already been patient enough. The whores at the base are fighting each other to sleep with me, but you still want me to wait? Just for you? Ridiculous.”

Holly’s mouth moved without a sound. If she’d been frozen before, now she was petrified, unable to even form coherent thoughts.

What is he… Brad…

“Enough already.” Brad stood, a bulge clearly visible under his tunic. “Come here. You will enjoy this, you’ll see.”

He reached out for her, and her mind blinked out. She only saw his hand approaching, and she wanted to escape. Nothing had ever been more important.

If he grabbed her… he wouldn’t let go.

She fell backward, crawling away and screaming at the top of her lungs. Her arms brushed against the hard ground, cutting her, but she didn’t even notice. Brad stopped. They were very close to the village—her screams could have been heard.

“You bitch,” he said, but Holly was already in panic. Screaming uncontrollably, she turned around, opened the door, and dashed for the village, stumbling but still faster than she’d ever been. Brad didn’t follow her.

“Whatever. I have better whores anyway.”

His voice trailed over but Holly didn’t listen, she didn’t want to listen. Like a banshee, she burst out of the woods and made for her house at the village edge, still screaming. Several villagers looked at her and spoke, but she didn’t hear them.

She fell on the door, pushing it open and revealing her father’s agitated form.

“Holly?” he said, hand already on his bow. “What⁠—”

She fell on him and held on tight, only now realizing her cheeks were wet with tears. She screamed and cried like a baby, and it was only a long time later that she regained her faculties. She was still in her father’s embrace, the fur he wore on his chest wet from her tears.

She held on tightly, sniffling and panting, squeezing him hard in the hopes that she’d melt into him, no longer existing. Derek’s hand was on her hair, gently caressing it.

“Holly…” His voice came out rough, his pain evident. She didn’t look up. “What happened?”

“I—I—” Holly relaxed ever so slightly. Her head was in pain and her chest bloated, as if her heart would jump out. She was so scared that she yelped.

“My daughter…” Derek’s deep voice reverberated through his chest, causing her body to tremble. She smiled through her tears. That’s right. He would protect her. Her father was here.

Not looking up, Holly’s mouth moved on its own, telling him everything. She spoke of Brad, how they’d met in the forest and struck up a conversation. How he was a bandit, and how he came from Milaris. How he’d promised to take her there, how he told her stories of the city, and how he stole her first kiss. How she snuck out to meet him when he was in the area, how her heart skipped for him. Their relationship was something new and exciting, something she loved to explore and experience.

But Brad wanted to go further, and she wasn’t ready. She told him to wait, but he was clearly unhappy, and then he…

When she finished speaking, Derek was silent. Trembling, she pulled away to look at him.

She had never seen such a terrifying look on his face. Not on anyone’s face. Her heart shook, half in fear and half in joy.

“Dad…” she said, but his eyes stared straight ahead. “Dad.”

“Wait here,” he said. Gently pushing her away, he made for the door, reaching it in two strides and pulling it open.

“MELISSA!”

His deep voice boomed through the village. Within a minute, both Melissa and Ashman had arrived, having already heard Holly’s screams before.

With a few words, Derek explained the situation to Melissa, whose face shook. Her strict eyes mellowed as she rushed to Holly.

“Melis—” she began saying, smothered into a hug.

“Shh,” Melissa said, caressing the girl’s golden hair. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

Tears once again appeared in Holly’s eyes.

“Holly.” Derek arrived by her side, looking her in the eye. His gaze was still filled with iron and darkness, but there was also caring love that could not be hidden. “I must go on a trip. Ashman and Melissa will take care of you. Be a good girl, okay?”

“Dad?” she asked. “What are you⁠—”

“I love you,” Derek said, his eyes dark like moonlit lakes.

Her heart shook in realization. “I love you too… Dad… Please don’t go…”

“I will return.”

With this promise and not a glance back, Derek grabbed his bow, quiver, and machete from where they rested against a wall, stepped outside, and closed the door behind him.

Inside the house, Holly broke down into sobs. Ashman’s eyes glazed over. “May the Wall hold forever, Derek…” he whispered.

Outside, night was already approaching. Derek closed his eyes and took a deep, chill-filled breath, clenching his bow so hard his knuckles turned white. When his eyes reopened, they were cold and hard, and his jaw was clenched. A murderous aura oozed from his body, filling the very air around him.

He did not care about the cold. He entered the forest, bearing a full will to kill. Silently, his form merged into the darkness and disappeared.

24

A WILL TO FIGHT

The sun crested the horizon, showering the world with life.

A lone, dark figure stood in front of a necromancer’s tower, bow in hand. The tower was already bustling with activity, with the undead arrayed in front of it cutting a stark contrast against the man’s still figure.

“Jerry!” he shouted, washing his voice over the tower. On the top floor, another man was dozing off on a very soft chair, and his eyes snapped open.

Derek?

“Derek!” he shouted, leaning out the window. Immediately, his eyes widened. Derek was shivering, his hands hidden deep into his furs while ice glinted in his dense beard. His eyes were tired yet filled with a gaze murderous enough to upset even Jerry’s heart. “What happened!”

Despite his shivering, Derek’s voice was calm, “I need your help.”

Derek was hunched over a chair, multiple blankets draped over him. The hearth burned nearby, warming his cold body. He’d spent the entire night in the forest, searching for Brad, and had not found him. As soon as Holly left his shack, the bandit immediately ran away.

However, Derek was not willing to drop the issue. Brad tricked his daughter, betrayed her, and almost scarred her irreparably. Derek was determined to hunt him down and kill him.

Next to the hunter, Jerry sat in his heavenly soft chair, watching the flames dance. Derek just finished recounting last night’s events, and the two men had lapsed into silence.

“Are you sure?” Jerry asked.

“Absolutely.” Derek’s voice was determined. “I must kill him no matter what. I will go stalk their base until I find him. What do you think, my friend? Two birds with one stone?”

Jerry sighed. He had been about to leave forever when Derek arrived. The two had already said their goodbyes last time.

“I know I’m asking for too much,” Derek continued, his voice full of shame, “but I know you considered fighting. If I am enough to tip the scales, let’s fight together… and, if not, I’ll go anyway.”

“It’s useless,” Jerry replied. “I met their leader, Jericho the Green. He is an earth spirit of incredible strength. From what I understand, he’s practically invincible.”

Derek shook his head. “Nobody is invincible. Everyone has a weakness, even earth spirits.”

“Maybe so, but are we strong enough to discover it? Even Axehand, who is by far my strongest undead, was helpless in front of Jericho. He was manhandled like a child.”

“I refuse to believe he can survive an arrow through the eye.” Derek snorted, then sneezed. Wiping his nose, he said, “I’m going regardless. Even by myself, I have a chance. I don’t need to kill Jericho, only that son of a bitch called Brad. I will hide in the area around their base for however long is needed, taking them out one by one.”

“You will be discovered eventually. There are dozens of them.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Derek’s eyes turned sad. “A bandit… He’s a grown man, Jerry, and he played my daughter like a toy. If I let him get away with it, what point will there be in living on?”

“That your daughter will have a father,” Jerry replied pointedly, but the hunter slowly shook his head.

“Some things are worth dying for. I cannot swallow this. I have already made my decision, Jerry, and I will kill that man or die trying. All I want to know is whether you will help me out or not. I know it’s shameful to ask you this after I refused you the exact same thing a few days ago, but my revenge is more important. I would rather bow my head to a friend than to an enemy.”

The fire cracked, sending sparks over their feet. Jerry leaned back, gazing at a ray of light falling through the open window. He met his friend’s steely gaze. Helping Derek out… Should he fight, or should he run?

On the one hand, he could fight. He and his undead would probably all perish, along with Derek. Of course, if they somehow made it, everything would be perfect.

On the other hand, he could run. Derek would die valiantly—or maybe succeed—the bandits would keep infesting the region, and Jerry would abandon his current home and run away like a wet cat. He and his undead would wander the lands, hoping to eventually find a place that would accept them, and maybe in the future, when they got strong enough, they would return.

Jerry’s heart was clear. He wanted to fight. He wanted to bet on himself and his friends. He wanted to help Derek, avenge Shorty, defend his home, and rid the world of this Jericho-shaped blight. He wanted to gamble that, with enough preparation, the many of them could come up with a way to defeat the earth spirit. He believed they could succeed and would love to take the risk. At worst, he would die, and that wasn’t too bad.

But he wasn’t alone.

Above everything else, Jerry wanted to protect his undead. He cared about them, viewed them as his children and closest friends. As their master, he had to keep them safe. That was the responsibility he bore, and he’d be damned if he led them all to their true deaths. As the decision solidified in his mind, he gazed back at Derek, meeting his friend’s pained eyes.

Jerry opened his mouth and⁠—

“Master!” a voice came from the door. Boney stood there, crimson flames burning in his eye sockets. Jerry and Derek both looked over in surprise.

“Boney?” He was supposed to be downstairs. “What are you doing here?”

“I have come to stop you from doing something stupid, Master,” the skeleton replied, his voice carrying an edge rarely heard before.

“Stop me? Stupid?” Jerry tilted his head. “I’m not following.”

From the side, Derek smiled sadly.

“Our souls are linked with yours, Master,” Boney said. “We know what you feel. Right now, your soul burns with the desire to battle, but you suppress yourself because you want to protect us. Am I wrong?”

Jerry blinked in surprise. “No, but⁠—”

“That is a grave mistake!” the skeleton continued with fervor. He paced into the room, coming to stand between the two men. His bone fists were clenched as his eyes burned with passion. “Master, you are a man with a wild, free heart! Whatever you want, that is what you do. You are a necromancer, you do not fear death. Why, then, do you fear our death? No—How even dare you!”

Jerry, still seated, could only watch speechlessly. Boney had always been the calm, collected type, occasionally coming out with sarcasm. Such an outburst was unheard of.

Boney continued, “Why are you mutilating yourself to protect us? We should be protecting you and sacrificing ourselves for you. We are your servants. This is our entire purpose in unlife!”

“You are more than that.” Jerry frowned. “You’re my friends.”

“Even more so! You don’t fear death, and neither do we. Hell, we’ve already died once! If you want what’s best for us, why do you force us onto a path you wouldn’t choose for yourself? Would you want to be protected like this, Master? Having others choose your life for you?”

No, I would not, Jerry thought but did not speak the words.

“Of course, you wouldn’t. So why are you doing the same to us?” Boney seethed.

Jerry’s eyes widened. Was Boney angry at him? That should be impossible. He’d always had a vague sense of how his magic was supposed to act, and he thought the undead were under his complete control. He gave them as much freedom as he could but didn’t think they were capable of actually disagreeing with him, let alone be mad!

Ignoring his master’s surprise, Boney pressed on.

“I do not speak only for myself, Master. I speak for everyone! Boboar, Foxy, Headless, Axehand, Birb… Retreating in the face of danger is fine, but now that your soul is burning with the will to fight, how can we possibly accept it? We do not want to live a sheltered life. We want to follow you, to fight and die by your side. You do not fear death—well, neither do we! All we want is to experience a happy, fulfilling unlife! Please, do not suppress yourself, Master. We are extensions of you. Wherever you desire to go, whatever you desire to do, we will follow you, and we will be happy. So what if we die? We don’t give a damn!”

Jerry remained silent. Then, as if noticing something, he quickly stood and walked to the window.

His undead were arrayed on the ground underneath. Each of their eyes burned with crimson balls of flames, even Birb’s, as they stared up at him. They awaited his orders like soldiers to a general, and their fervor could not be hidden. Their souls pulsed with Boney’s words—they wanted to follow Jerry to infinity and beyond, walk that path until it killed them.

“Do you understand, Master?” Boney stepped beside him. “We are your friends, your servants, and the instruments of your will. If you want to care for us, give us the life you would give yourself, and let us be happy alongside you for as long as it lasts.”

Jerry looked over his undead army. They weren’t much of an army; six in all, mismatched and sloppy. Yet, it didn’t matter. They might not be a real army, but they were his army.

And his friends.

A warm, tingly feeling sprouted inside him, swiftly moving to fill him completely.

“I understand now,” he said, laughing aloud. “I finally understand! Thank you, Boney. Thank you, everyone.”

Boney’s crimson flames winked out. “Wasn’t I great, Master? I’ve practiced that speech a lot.”

“You were absolutely delightful.”

Jerry looked over the army of undead, their eyes filled with pride, anger, determination, eagerness; truly, everything but flesh was there.

“My friends,” Jerry said, giving them his very first speech, “I almost betrayed you just now. I am not perfect. However, if you wish to follow me, if you wish for our souls to be interlinked in eternity so we live and die together, then so be it. I will not hold back anymore. Let us live a life worth living and let us die when the time comes.”

Axehand roared first, a primal, animalistic sound which shook the trees, and the rest of them followed.

“Today,” Jerry shouted, his voice cutting through their war cries, “we march to battle! Today, we shall avenge our fallen friend and protect our home. Who cares about death? Who cares about odds and chances? We will give it our all, and with Desistos and Samudil as my witnesses, we will triumph! For our friends, we fight! For what we believe in, we fight! For ourselves…”

Jerry’s eyes flared crimson, his voice booming deep and resounding with the soul. His undead roared, Jerry roared, and even Derek stood and roared himself, swayed by Jerry’s words.

“WE FIGHT!”

25

THE RETURN OF THE EIGHT

An odd procession greeted the woods. Ahead walked Derek, his powerful yet dexterous form leading the way. At the very back was Axehand, pulling a cart filled with some of Jerry’s latest experiments. They would be reanimated later—even though Jerry’s capacity for undead had seen a drastic increase lately, some of these backups had trouble walking for long.

In the middle of the procession was a jumbled mix of bones and flesh and strange names and missing heads.

Jerry and most of his undead walked side by side, jesting with each other in relative silence. Boboar and Foxy were walking next to Boney in a way that purposefully showed off their shoes, while the skeleton did everything he could not to look at them. He, in turn, was chatting with Jerry, who was busy playing with Headless’ head, turning it in various ways, while the zombie stumbled onwards in an attempt to keep walking without his head.

Training, they called it. Derek could barely hold his tongue.

Throwing a desperate, backward glance, he whimpered, “We’re only half a day away from the bandits… Can you at least be quieter, please?”

“Aren’t we quiet already?” Jerry whispered back. “We’re doing our best.”

They weren’t in any danger of being noticed. Birb was flying high above, constantly scouting the forest. If anyone appeared even remotely nearby, they would know at once, and no bandit would be bored enough to station an unmoving guard at this distance from the base.

Derek only wanted to be quiet out of habit.

“The only one who’s actually doing his best is Axehand…” The hunter shook his head. “You know what? He’s my favorite undead.”

Silence. The undead halted and stared at him in shock and disbelief, while Axehand grunted cockily.

Boney slowly shook his head. “After all this time? After everything we’ve been through?”

“What have we been through, you bag of bones?” A vein pulsed on Derek’s temple. “The most I remember is you poisoning me with tea!”

“Alas…” Boney sighed deeply, speaking with devastating, tear-wrenching, and above all, clearly fake sadness. “All those winter nights by the fire… The sweet words… Was it all a lie, Derek? Is that superskeleton brute”—he motioned at Axehand—“your true beloved?”

Jerry watched with a grin while Headless clapped, lost his balance, and fell.

“You people are hopeless.” Derek pointed at Jerry. “I blame you for raising them this way. Oh, if only I wasn’t sworn to revenge…”

Shaking his head once more, Derek fell quiet, turning to lead the way. The undead followed, jesting in a slightly quieter manner than before, while Axehand walked a bit straighter.

Derek’s brows scrunched. “Silence,” he commanded, and everyone froze at once.

With two short steps, Jerry arrived by his side. “What is it?” he whispered. Derek’s eyes narrowed.

“I smell blood.”

“Blood?”

The undead tensed, a small crimson sparkle flickering within their eyes. Their instincts reared up; they would protect Jerry. They immediately fanned out around him.

“Stay here,” the hunter ordered before disappearing into the shrubbery. Birb’s gaze was enough to spot anyone moving, but it couldn’t penetrate the thick foliage of some places. Sometimes, the only choice was the traditional one.

So, they waited. A few minutes went by, then some more. The smell of blood had become more noticeable, and even Jerry’s hands flickered with a faint black sheen, ready to sever souls and claim lives.

Suddenly, a figure appeared from within the bushes and almost fell prey to an avalanche of attacks before everyone realized it was just Derek.

“It’s clear,” he said, ignoring the weapons pointed his way. “There was a battle. The clearing ahead is full of corpses. I haven’t spotted any living creatures but stay on your toes.”

“Got it.” Jerry nodded. “Thank you, Derek.”

“It’s my job.” The hunter shrugged. He hadn’t just done his job. Derek hadn’t hesitated to dive headfirst into danger, choosing to risk himself rather than send one of the more durable, but also less skilled, undead. Jerry appreciated this. He would have done the same.

“There were some dropped weapons,” the hunter continued. “Better quality than what you have. We could scavenge them.”

Jerry spared a glance for his little army, finding them equipped with swords and spears. These weapons had been taken by the dead bandits or donated by Derek, but some had seen better days, especially after the early weapon training the undead went through.

The amount of wear an unskilled wielder could inflict on a weapon was mind-boggling.

“Good,” Jerry said. “Let’s go.”

“Follow me.”

Now in a tight formation, the procession crept through the woods. Of course, despite the undeads’ perfect discipline and Derek’s instructions, making some noise was unavoidable. If not for the shoes everyone wore, they would have been as quiet as a drunk ox.

“We’re here,” Derek said.

The bushes parted to reveal an open area. A wide circle had been cleared in the greenery, with the remains of a dead campfire still resting in its middle. A few tents were interspersed in the wide circle, each more sloppily erected than the last. Only a single tent stood perfectly straight, its fabric unwrinkled despite the blood spilled on it.

The foliage was thick above; this spot had been purposefully chosen to hide the campfire’s smoke. Whoever built this camp was clearly experienced, but despite their precautions, they had been discovered.

Dead bodies littered the camp. Some were gutted, some pierced by arrows, others beheaded; all of them very dead and very recent. The scent of blood was thick in the area and only small animals had discovered them, which all escaped when Jerry’s undead approached.

“They died very recently, probably last night,” Derek said, narrowing his eyes. “It was an ambush. Look: most don’t even have armor on. That poor fellow died inside his tent.”

Boney stepped beside Jerry. “Master,” he said softly, “aren’t these…”

“Yes.” Jerry took in the massacre calmly. “These are the Billies.”

“You knew them?” Derek looked over. “Who were they?”

“Soldiers of Milaris. The Billy squad. They’re the soldiers who once came to my tower and asked me to leave. I remember them clearly; eight hillbillies and their captain. He’s the only one missing. He seemed like a good man, if a bit irritable. I hope he’s still alive.”

“Your prayers have been heard.”

A figure dropped from above, covered in so many plants and leaves he’d gone unnoticed. Before anyone could realize what was happening, the armored man had grabbed Jerry from behind, sword licking the necromancer’s throat.

“Nobody move,” he hissed, “or this guy goes down.”

The eyes of the undead exploded with crimson flames so intense they spilled out of their eye sockets. Derek’s heartbeat skyrocketed.

“Hello.” Jerry smiled, unable to see the assailant behind him. “Captain Ramon, yes?”

“Reymond,” the man barked, pressing his blade into Jerry’s throat. “And you keep your mouth shut. I ask the questions here.”

“Keep your blade to yourself, soldier,” Derek said in a slow, deliberate voice. “Once these undead go wild, they will tear you to pieces, but not before I plant an arrow in your eye.”

“I’d like to see you try.” Captain Reymond snorted. “All of you back off. And put your weapons down.”

Jerry wanted to nod, but as he had a blade to his throat, he winked instead. Seeing that, the undead and Derek all obediently stepped back and put their weapons on the ground.

In truth, Jerry could probably sever this man’s soul in a heartbeat if he wanted to. One should not casually approach a necromancer—but, in Reymond’s defense, some things were not widely known. Generally speaking, those who attacked necromancers didn’t live to tell the tale.

Despite the blade on his throat, Jerry chose not to act. He felt positively predisposed toward this loyal yet reasonable captain, and he trusted his intuition to come through.

In the worst-case, he would just die.

“What are you doing in this place?” Reymond trained his gaze on Derek, meeting the hunter’s deep amber eyes.

“We’re here to destroy the bandits,” the hunter replied.

“I’m not an idiot.” The blade pressed deeper into Jerry’s throat, drawing a line of thick, dark red blood. It almost instantly stopped flowing. Reymond didn’t notice. “Tell me the truth or I will slice his head off.”

“It is the truth.” Derek looked straight into the soldier’s eyes. “My daughter was almost raped by one of them. I will slay them to the last man.”

Reymond held his stare. None backed down. “And him?” he asked, nodding toward Jerry.

“He’s my friend, and he has his own score to settle.”

Reymond remained quiet. Everyone did, falling into a tense, deathly impasse. The captain tightened his grip.

“Jerry is a good man, soldier,” Derek said. “I swear that on my life. Let him go, and you can walk away. Otherwise, I guarantee you will die by my hands.”

“Heh.” Reymond chuckled darkly, still holding his blade at Jerry. “Do you think I’m still afraid of death? After all this?” He motioned at the dead with his other hand.

“They were your men,” Derek said.

“Yes… They were under my protection, each and every one of them. Untrained villagers and dumb enough to kill themselves if left unattended, but they were still my men. And what did I do with them? I led them into certain death.”

Derek’s eyes hardened, thoughts flitting behind them. “They were soldiers. This was their duty. If they were on the Damn Wall, they’d die all the same.”

“Perhaps.” Reymond chuckled darkly to himself. “But it remains that they were under my command. Their death is my failure. How could I live on? If you can kill me, hunter—which you cannot—perhaps you would rid this world of one more villain.”

“Why were you here, Reymond?” Derek asked.

“To stop the bandits,” he spat out. “These devilish beings burned an entire village alive, a village under my protection… It was my failure. Another one. I thought it my duty to stop them, but where did that lead? Only to more death, more innocent people slaughtered.”

“What made you think you could stop them?” Derek frowned.

Reymond shook his head. “We wouldn’t storm their base. We would camp half a day away, spying on them and occasionally killing a few. We would be the hunters… Only I underestimated them far too much. We pulled off a single ambush, but in the end, they were the hunters, and we were prey. They fell on us in the night; half my men died numb. The rest fought, but they weren’t nearly skilled enough. Only a single bandit fell to their blades before they all died.”

He pressed his eyes shut. “I should have died with them… but I’ve fought on the Wall for too long. In the heat of battle, when I knew it was lost, my training kicked in. My instinct told me to flee, and so I did, dodging arrows until they stopped shooting. It wasn’t until I was puking from exhaustion that I realized what I had done. I ran away and let my men die. I am a disgrace to the army and myself. I am a coward.”

“You did what everyone would,” Derek said. “It was the right thing.”

“Was it?” Reymond’s glare was scalding. “I would rather have died with them, hunter. At least then, I could properly apologize to them in hell.”

“Um…” Jerry croaked out. “Not to interrupt, but could you let me go? This is quite uncomfortable.”

“Can you swear your undead won’t harm me?” his deep voice rang in his ear.

“So long as you don’t try to harm us either.”

Unexpectedly, the blade disappeared from Jerry’s throat, and a strong push sent him stumbling forward. “Don’t attack!” Jerry shouted even as he tumbled to the ground. Turning around, an axe blade was inches away from Reymond’s neck, who was very visibly sweating.

“How?” he mumbled. Even as a veteran, he hadn’t had a chance to defend at all. Axehand was way too fast. The double-skeleton looked at Jerry, his red eye-flames roaring.

“I meant it, guys.” Jerry stood, patting himself down. “No attacking. He’s a good guy, I can feel it, even though a coward.”

“If I may, Master,” Boney’s voice was slow, “you can’t just ‘feel’ good guys.”

“Sure I can. Let him go, Axehand.”

Reluctantly, the skeletal behemoth lowered his hand and stepped back, glaring at the shocked guard captain. Finally facing the man, Jerry could take a good look at him.

Graying, disheveled hair could be seen for lack of a helmet. Dirty armor covered his equally dirty body, while his eyes flickered between pain, rage, despair, and terror.

“What is this beast…” he muttered, looking at Axehand.

“That’s Axehand,” Jerry explained, “the world’s greatest lumberjack.”

“Greatest what?”

“Lumberjack,” Jerry helped. “The people who cut down trees. He might look a bit scary, but he’s actually a pretty gentle soul.”

Reymond was lost for words.

“Are you okay, my friend?” Derek asked.

“Yes.” Jerry smiled. “Now come, Captain. Chat with us for a bit. If you want to stop the bandits, and we want the same, maybe we can help each other.”

“Help each other?” Reymond’s gaze alternated between Axehand and Jerry. He snorted. “I would rather kill myself than ally with these hellspawn.”

“Don’t worry, Captain. I’m a good necromancer! I’m sure our alliance will be wonderful,” Jerry said, beaming at the man. “Although…” His eyes fell on the well-built, dead Billies, “I have an idea I’m pretty sure you won’t like.”

The Billies stood up, dusted themselves off, and waved at Reymond.

26

NICE SHOES CAN SAVE THE DAY

I was there during the Red Week.

We set hundreds of miles of forest on fire to keep the Curse away from our land. We shot the animals and refugees with crossbows from afar, not daring to approach in fear of contracting the Curse ourselves, forcing them to either fall to our bolts or get burned to death. Most chose the former.

There was no Wall then, but we were many, and we were armed, and they were nothing but helpless civilians. We dyed the earth red with their blood and the sky red with fire. Everything in sight was burning, everything was red, and I was forced to keep killing innocent people for a week until they all died out or stopped coming.

It was hell on earth. Even now, fifty years later, I see them when I close my eyes. All those desperate, innocent people… What could we do? If we let them pass, we would have been the next to fall. It was the right choice, I believe that, but I am so ashamed I cry at night. The Red Week was the darkest time of our history, ancient or recent.

We constructed the Wall, the Wall of the Damned, the Damn Wall. We cut the continent in half to keep the Curse at bay, condemning all the northern people, those formerly grand and glorious kingdoms, to a slow death and consequent undeath. All because of a single wayward necromancer.

With my final breath, I wish for no such disaster to ever befall us again. Do not let history repeat itself. Kill all necromancers on sight. I implore you.

And may the Wall hold forever.

- The final words of a retired soldier, polished and saved in ink by a traveling scribe.

“ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOT!” Reymond raved. “RELEASE THEM! RELEASE THEM THIS INSTANT!”

“No, see, they’re happy with this, right guys?”

The Billies nodded, causing bits of flesh to fall off their grievous wounds.

“NO!” Reymond yelled. “You monster, I’ll slaughter you, I’ll…”

He kept spouting threats, moving his arms ineffectively as Axehand held him back. Furious, Reymond turned to Axehand and roared, “Let me go, you sharp bone crap!”

“Take a deep breath.” A hand landed on Reymond’s shoulder; Derek’s. “You’re in shock.”

“I can be in whatever—” Grabbing Axehand’s collarbones but failing to shake him, the guard captain closed his eyes, then took a deep, trembling breath. Jerry and Derek exchanged a glance.

“If he keeps on losing his head,” Boney suggested, “we can have Headless here teach him to⁠—”

“Enough.” Reymond opened his eyes; the rage hadn’t abated, but at least reason returned. “Let go of me, hellspawn.”

Axehand glanced at Jerry, who nodded. He carefully let go.

“Are you feeling better?” Jerry asked.

“Release my men,” Reymond ordered sternly. “I have already failed them in life. I will not fail them in death, too.”

“Hmm.” Jerry sighed. “If that is what you wish, Reymond⁠—”

“Captain,” Reymond interrupted. “Captain Reymond.”

“—Captain Reymond, then that is what I’ll do. But can you listen to me first?”

“Release them and I’ll listen.” The captain crossed his arms.

Jerry deliberated for a second. “Fine,” he said, waving a hand, and the Billies tumbled lifelessly to the ground. “If you agree, I can just reanimate them.”

The soldier’s eyes widened in puzzlement. He clearly hadn’t expected Jerry to agree.

“You see, Captain,” Jerry began, “I’m a necromancer. I can commune with a body’s soul. These men, the Billies⁠—”

“I don’t know why you call them that, but they have—had—names. They’re Rudolf, Dasher, Prancer⁠—”

“The Billies, then,” Jerry discarded the silly notion, while the captain kept mumbling names under his breath.

“…Comet, Vixen, Blitzen…”

“As I was saying,” Jerry continued, “these men died to the bandits. When I reached out to them just now, their souls shuddered at the prospect of revenge, of accomplishing their mission, of living anew. You see, Captain, when I reanimate someone, all I do is reconnect the soul to its shell—the body.”

Reymond narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Jerry continued.

“In essence, I’m giving them a second life, one that should be just as good, or even better, than the previous one. As long as they aren’t repulsed by the idea of becoming undead—which most people aren’t after they die—why not give them that?”

Reymond crossed his arms in front of his chest, tapping a foot on the ground as he thought. Having been to the Damn Wall, he knew a few things about necromancers, and he clearly didn’t trust Jerry.

“Are you trying to say that necromancers can revive people?” he asked.

“In a way. The links I create between body and soul are incredibly cruder than what they had while alive, which is why they are, well, undead. I suspect that an inconceivably powerful necromancer should be capable of fully reviving a person, but I’m way, way too far from that level.”

The eye-narrowing intensified.

“And you’re telling me,” Reymond asked with suspicion, motioning toward the curiously watching undead, “that my men want to be like… that?”

“Yes.” Jerry nodded. “But please be polite toward my undead friends.”

“Hmph!”

The captain snorted once, then fell silent. His chin moved from side to side as he thought, making his mustache wiggle.

“Can you prove it?” he finally asked.

Jerry shook his head. “Not easily. After death, only the deeper, most instinctive parts of themselves remain—everything else is lost forever. I cannot prove anything unless we’re incredibly lucky and get someone like Boney.”

The skeleton waved. “Tom Boney, to be exact. I used to be Tom. Now, I’m Boney.”

“And you’re happy to be serving this monst… monstrous gentleman?”

“Happier than I’ve ever been, Captain.” Boney’s voice deepened. “My life was a gray desert before I met Master. Now, though my flesh is gone, and most of my emotions, and several bodily functions, too, I am pleased to spend my unlife serving him.”

Jerry coughed awkwardly.

“That goes for all of us,” Boney continued, waving toward the other undead, who all nodded excitedly. “Master could have subjugated our souls and forced us to obey him—which is how it began, admittedly—but we no longer have any desire to oppose him. We choose to follow him wholeheartedly and devote our unlives to him simply because he is who he is. To him, we are not puppets, but friends. And to us, he is more than a master; he is our father and closest friend.”

Reymond blinked a few times, then his gaze hardened. He had decided.

“As if I’d believe that,” he growled. “Good necromancers and flying whales… I’ve served on the Wall, heathen. I know your kind. Necromancers are treacherous. You just made the skeleton say those things.”

“Look at their feet, Captain.” Derek pointed down. “Would an evil necromancer make them shoes?”

Reymond’s eyes turned downward, then widened to their very physical limits. He shuddered.

“My God…” he mumbled. “You—They—Even the animals have shoes!” His gaze turned to Jerry, ghostly and struggling to comprehend. “You…”

“I’m a good necromancer, Captain.” Jerry smiled. “Boney exaggerated a bit, but your men will be safe with me. They will be happier than ever before.”

“It’s true,” Derek cut in. “I was also skeptical at first, but all those things are true. Jerry has saved our village multiple times and is friendly and approachable. Hell, he and his undead once entered a snowman-building competition. I think he even lost.”

“It was a tie,” Boney replied calmly, shooting Derek a cold glare before turning to Reymond. “I don’t know about other necromancers, Captain, but Master truly is a wonderful person. You should put your prejudice aside.”

The rest of the undead also voiced their agreement with a series of oinks, yelps, grunts, and other unintelligible yet clearly joyful noises.

Faced with all these sources of confirmation, Reymond could only shake his head in desperation.

“He made them shoes…” he muttered, then erupted into a fit of roaring, booming, belly-shaking laughter.

“We lost him,” Boney said. “Oh well, to the back-up cart it is.”

“It’s gone, it’s all gone!” Reymond cried out, scaring some nearby birds. “Fine, fine! Go ahead! Do it! If you people are crazy, then I, Reymond, will also go crazy! What do I have to lose?”

“That’s the spirit, Captain!” Jerry laughed. “A bit less crazy would be nice, but this works, too.”

He hadn’t expected to succeed, but the captain’s delicate mental state had its upsides.

With a wave of Jerry’s hand, the eight Billies once again stood, experimentally moving their limbs around. One removed a sword embedded in his chest, looked at it in puzzlement, then tossed it away. All of them turned to Jerry.

“I don’t suppose any of you can talk?” asked the necromancer. “Yeah, you barely could before dying, anyway. Okay, everyone, I’m Jerry, and allow me to make the official introductions. Our new friends are Billies one through eight. Billies, these are your new friends: Boboar, Foxy, Boney, Headless, Axehand, and up there in the sky is Birb. The living ones are Derek and Reymond. Get along well, okay?”

Jerry smiled, as did all his undead, and the two sides exchanged handshakes, nods, and on one occasion, heads. Reymond simply looked on, his inner turmoil clear enough for Jerry to notice.

“Billies,” Jerry said, drawing attention back to himself. “Your captain, Reymond, was the one who gave me permission to raise you. What do you have to say to that?”

Reymond tensed. The eight zombies looked at Jerry, then faced their captain. As one, they all brought their right fists to their hearts and bowed. A smile was on their faces, and as grotesque as a zombie’s smile was, Captain Reymond had no mind for that.

His lips were trembling, and his eyes got wet as the middle-aged man straightened up. In a shaky voice, he said, “Thank you, boys. You can be at ease now.”

“The Billies will be yours to command as you see fit, Captain,” Jerry said with a smile. “I will not intervene.”

“They will be mi⁠—”

His voice cracked, salty tears escaping his eyes. He hurriedly blinked a few times, trying to shake them away, but new ones appeared in their place. Mustering his resolve, he finally managed to finish his words, “Thank you, Jerry necromancer… If your words are true, this is the greatest gift you could have given me…”

He hiccupped, then regarded the Billies. Even as his mustache was getting wet, he cried out in joy, “Come on, boys! Our adventures are not over yet!”

The zombies roared in happiness, as did Reymond, no longer minding the tears that flowed on his old, hard cheeks. They all embraced each other in a big, tight hug.

Derek snuck to Jerry’s side. “Did you make them do that?” he whispered.

“In part.” The necromancer smiled. “But the joy they feel comes from their souls. Reymond might blame himself, but the Billies never did.”

“Yeah…” Derek’s voice faded as he chuckled. “Heh, look at how happy they are. I never thought necromancy could achieve something like this.”

“It’s a wide world, Derek.” Jerry’s gaze softened as he took in all the joy. “It’s a wide world…”

27

THE GREENSKIN HIDEOUT

The bandit hideout was not what it sounded like.

When someone hears about a hideout, they imagine a shack hidden in the shadows, a rundown basement, or, at best, an abandoned, dusty, barely standing mansion.

What these bandits had was an entire array of treehouses nestled on dark-bark trees. Wooden platforms were constructed around the trunks, using thick branches as support, and on these platforms, the bandits had built their wooden cabins. Flimsy ladders climbed each tree, giving the bandits access from below, and the different trees were connected to each other by hanging bridges, rocking at the barest hint of wind.

Jerry’s group even caught sight of the bandit leader walking around the wooden network. The bridges groaned under his massive bulk, and the bandits respectfully gave way, while his bright emerald eyes were visible even from this distance. They’d also caught sight of Brad, and Derek clenched his bow so hard the wood creaked.

Uncaring of its occupants—or its ambitious invaders—the canopy above served to cast the entire wooden network in shady, spasmodic lighting, forming a complex painting of bright light and deep shadows.

It was beautiful, in a way, though most of the assault team could only watch from far below and afar. This colorful description was provided by Jerry, who’d shared Birb’s senses.

“How the hell did they build that?” Derek asked, narrowing his eyes as he peered above. “They’re pretty impressive for base criminals. Did they have a biomancer help out?”

“No.” Boney stuck out his empty chest. “Just determination, camaraderie, and a bunch of hard work. Admirable, really; makes my bones shiver in pride.”

In his previous life as Tom, Boney used to be one of the bandits. He knew all their ins and outs. He could have even described this place in detail, if he had to, but getting a personal look was bound to be better, especially since Birb’s surveillance ensured they would face the bare minimum risk.

“Admirable, but still fallible.” Captain Reymond’s eyes narrowed in calculation. “I’ve seen a similar structure in my youth. Back then, we just set the whole thing aflame; hard to invade means hard to escape.”

“Let’s not burn the entire forest, Captain.” Derek raised a brow. “There are villages in every direction; wherever the wind blows, someone’s bound to get in trouble.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that, just reminiscing. I can think of other ways, too. Climbing on nearby trees and using the topmost branches to reach the bridges is one option; we could also try blitzing them in the night, under a bow’s cover, or even remain hidden and shoot them all to death.”

“You’ve seen a lot of things, haven’t you, Captain?” asked Jerry.

“My fair share, I guess,” Reymond replied. “In my youth, I was part of the army’s elite forces. We carried out many operations like this… Oh, I still remember old Jones, our commander. A remarkable man, unrivaled with the blade, and with a manly, bushy beard… Too bad it was flammable. The use of fire was discouraged after that incident.”

Reymond was a decisive man. After deciding to ally with Jerry’s team, he’d quickly warmed up to them. On his suggestion, they’d stopped advancing and spent a few hours getting to know each other—necessary to operate as a team, he’d said—during which he’d told them many stories of his adventures.

His favorite part to talk about—and the worst to live through—was his term on the Damn Wall, the border between the Three Kingdoms and the Dead Lands, where the wild undead of Ozborne festered. Defending the Wall was the most glorious and deadliest of duties, pitting humanity’s best against the ever-evolving hordes of wild undead, over and over, until there were no more walking corpses to destroy.

The Wall was a nightmarish place where only half the soldiers survived, but this half were elites, veterans who later went on to bolster their kingdom’s military.

“Imagine this, gentlemen,” Reymond had said, and his words had been carved in Jerry’s mind. “Thousands upon thousands of undead rushing through the Black Belt and swarming our defenses, screaming with tormented madness, heedless of our siege weapons and pots of burning oil. They sizzled under it and fell by the swathe yet still pressed on, climbing the Wall with their broken fingernails like frenzied spiders until we met them body to body. Some even flew, too, with wings made of warped, misshapen flesh. And, if you were unlucky enough to meet one of the elite hordes, the ones carrying fleshy giants capable of throwing their cursed brethren over our fortifications… Well, then you just prayed that Manna and Samudil were with you.”

As he recounted the horrifying reality of the Wall, he’d been looking at Jerry, directly and unflinchingly. Jerry was too engrossed in the story to care. He only had a mind for the potential new kinds of undead he could create, as well as the difficulties he’d face in trying to integrate himself into society.

Above those, he couldn’t help but lament for Ozborne’s failure, the Curse that turned half a continent into a wasteland and forever stigmatized necromancers as villains—which, incidentally or not, most ended up becoming.

“It’s unfair,” was all he’d said, and Reymond had nodded seriously. Whether he understood or not, for some reason, his opinion of Jerry improved from that point onward.

Back to the present, the captain caught himself reminiscing and stopped. “Where was I? Ah yes, the bandit hideout. My friends, we must admit that charging in swords swinging won’t get us far. We need a plan. Any other ideas?”

The entire team was currently crouched behind a thicket of tall bushes, and there were plenty of them—both people and bushes.

There was Jerry, Derek, and Reymond. That was the entire living portion of their company. The dead ones included Boney, Axehand, Headless, Boboar, Foxy, and eight newly risen zombies, the Billies. There was also the cart full of back-up skeletons, but Jerry was already strained to his limit with the addition of the Billies.

They were not a discreet company. If not for Birb alerting them to patrols and guard stations, they couldn’t have come within a mile of the hideout unnoticed.

“I have an idea,” Jerry said. “We find a bunch of cloaks and disguise ourselves in them. We sneak in their midst, and then, bam—they wouldn’t know what hit them.”

Silence ensued.

“As delightful as that sounds, Master,” Boney said, “I’m allergic to plans which involve disguise, mostly because they tend to fail spectacularly. Let’s come up with a better alternative.”

“Plenty of them wear cloaks though.” Jerry pouted.

“As I recounted, there are many ways to assault them,” said Reymond. “However, the chief problem remains Jericho himself. He’s practically invincible; unless we find some way to kill him in his sleep, I really don’t see this working. Trust me, the army has tried.”

“Alright,” Derek said. “Who do we have that can sneak all the way to his bed?”

Jericho, as the leader, lived in the tallest, broadest treehouse. He occupied the centermost oak tree by himself, a ninety-foot-tall behemoth made of dark bark and bright leaves. Most treehouses were fifty feet above ground; his was at sixty. Moreover, there was only a single bridge leading from his house’s platform to others, always guarded on both ends, and the foliage was pruned to make crossing on the tree that way difficult.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Reymond said, “Jericho’s treehouse is a stronghold by itself. How do we approach that?”

He gave everyone time to speak, and when nobody didn’t, Reymond kept talking.

“Maybe the skeletal fox can do it. It’s light and knows its way around branches. If anyone can make it there, it’s the fox.”

“But she lacks something critical,” Boney said. “Opposable thumbs. How will she open the door?”

At night, Jericho closed all doors and windows of his treehouse, fearing an archer’s attack. Opposable thumbs were needed to turn the round doorknob.

Axehand, who hoped to personally slay Jericho, grunted sadly as he looked at his axeblade hands. Jericho had once beaten him, and Axehand’s competitive spirit was second to none; he dreamed of returning the favor. Alas, he, too, lacked opposable thumbs.

Then a new idea shone in Axehand’s mind, and he grunted in exclamation.

“No, Axehand,” Jerry said, “you cannot chop the door down. He’d just wake up. Not to mention you can’t sneak all the way there anyway.”

“If only I had flesh again.” Boney sighed. “Most of these bandits are dumb as furniture. I bet I could get all the way there unobstructed.”

“But what if you wore a cloak?” Jerry reiterated his previous idea.

“Wouldn’t work, Master. They would never let me reach Jericho like that.”

Reymond spoke up, “It looks like we’ve reached a dead end. I don’t see any way to successfully assassinate Jericho. Unless you do, let’s gather more information; maybe something will come up.”

That’s what they set to do: desperately observe the bandits. There were dozens, living in eight-person houses, but the group already knew that. There was also a guarded storage house and a prisoner house, containing mostly young women; they also knew that.

For a long time, nothing came up, no matter how they stretched their eyes. Even Jerry—watching through Birb’s advantageous vantage point—failed to find anything of worth.

The mood was terrible, and everyone was downcast. They’d come all this way hoping to exterminate the bandits. Derek could snipe or assassinate Brad and escape, but he was now part of the team. He would definitely have his revenge, but if they could get rid of the other bandits as well, he would help.

They could always start picking off the random grunts one by one, then again that wouldn’t do much. They would eventually be discovered and hunted down by the invincible Jericho, while, over time, the bandits would regrow to their previous numbers.

As long as the head remained, the snake would not die.

The minutes passed, and they took a break, tired and disappointed. It was during this break that Jerry was still gazing at Jericho’s treehouse through the leaves, searching for weaknesses, because he really wanted to get revenge for Shorty and help Derek do the same for Holly’s mistreatment. He also deeply desired to help the people of Pilpen, his new neighbors, as well as everyone the bandits troubled.

He wouldn’t sacrifice himself and his undead, but he would try to help. He was, after all, a good guy.

Jerry narrowed his eyes. “Hmm?” An idea began forming in his mind. It seemed crazy, even crazier than the cloak one, but it just might work.

“Guys?” he said, turning around. “I think I have an idea.”

They spotted the glint in his eyes. Jerry was a bit crazy, but he was also vastly different than everyone else. His ideas might hold the spark of genius.

“What is it, Master?” Boney asked.

“You see, Jericho is on a tree,” Jerry began, his excitement making him speak quickly. “Sixty feet in the air, to be exact. Falling from that height has got to hurt.”

“You want to push him off the platform?” Derek frowned. “That’s⁠—”

“No,” Jerry interrupted. “Listen to me. He’s trapped in a sealed-off treehouse with only one escape route. A treehouse on a tree. And what do trees like to do? That’s right, fall. And who do we have on our side?” His gaze swiveled to Axehand, a hint of pride in his eyes. “The world’s greatest lumberjack.”

Everyone looked at Axehand. The double-skeleton was confused at first, then his eyes lit up with crimson flames. He raised an axe-hand, grunting in laughter.

“Axehand can just chop the tree down!” Jerry said. “Isn’t that amazing? No matter how tough Jericho is, there’s no way he can survive a fall from that height, especially if the tree lands on him. If he does, he’s definitely immortal.”

Everyone exchanged glances. They could all see the promise in this plan, as well as its horrendous, gaping holes.

“You want Axehand to chop down that tree?” Derek pointed at the wooden giant which supported Jericho’s treehouse. “The tree that would need three men to hug its bark?”

“Axehand is very, very strong,” Jerry reassured them. “Moreover, he’s a born lumberjack. I mean, maybe not born, but it’s what I made him for. What do you think, Axehand? How many chops would you need to cut that thing down?”

The buff skeleton considered it heavily—for at least half a second—then pointed an axe blade at Boney’s hand.

“What?” said Boney, looking at his skeletal hand, then back at Axehand. “You want me to count fingers?”

Axehand nodded. Boney sighed, then opened his palm. “What about this much?”

Axehand nodded again.

“Five chops, then.” Jerry smiled again. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“Yes.” Captain Reymond scrutinized the skeleton. “Let’s say ten, for good measure.”

Axehand threw him a death stare, leading to all eight of the Billies glaring right back.

“Be good, guys,” Jerry said. “Five, ten, it’s the same thing. It’s fast enough.”

“But how would he get there?” Derek asked. “The bandits are idiots, but they aren’t mindless. They have guards at the ground level, too.”

At every given moment, even in the night, there were always a dozen guards on the ground and six on the bridges. They alternated every four hours.

“That is indeed a problem,” Reymond said. “We could storm them, but then Jericho will wake up and our plan will be exactly one hanging bridge away from useless.”

“Unless that hanging bridge does not exist,” Derek said, looking up. “Not to brag, but I’m a good archer with a full quiver. Given enough time, I can probably shoot one of the ropes holding the bridge up.”

“All the way up there? In the night?” Reymond’s eyes widened. “That’s a tough shot!”

“I grew up with a bow, Captain. I can’t promise anything, but I will probably succeed.”

“Good man!” The captain’s eyes shone. “With a shot like you, I see hope!”

“It will still take some time though,” the hunter warned. “I have a full quiver, but I need time to aim properly, as well as a few calibrating shots. I’ll probably need half a minute, maybe more. And it’ll have to be a windless night.”

“A risk I’m willing to take.” Reymond smiled under his mustache, clapping Derek’s shoulder. “However,” he continued, eyes darkening slightly, “the whistle of arrows is easily distinguishable, and if we give them enough time, they will probably come up with something. The best-case scenario would be to have Axehand sneak all the way to the tree’s base and start hacking away just as Derek starts shooting. That should give us the best chances of success.”

“Foxy can also assist,” Jerry offered. “She can sneak to the treehouse through the foliage, and with some luck, get past the guard at the bridge. If Derek can’t cut the rope in time, maybe she’ll be able to.”

“That sounds great, but how would Axehand reach all the way to the tree unnoticed?” Boney tapped his bony chin. “The guards at the ground are lax, but they aren’t exactly sleeping on the job.”

“If only we had someone who could get past them unobstructed,” Jerry said, eyes twinkling. The skeleton looked at his master, then shuddered.

“No!” he said. “Anything but that!”

“Exactly that.” Jerry smiled. “It’s cloak time!”

28

SHAKING THE WORLD

Though the plan seemed far-fetched, it was their only option. By the time the sun set, all the details had been ironed out.

Axehand and Boney made up the ground team. The former was the core of the operation, while the latter would be in charge of tricking the guards into letting them in. If push came to shove, Boney was also quite durable—more than a fleshy living man, anyway—so he’d stand a good chance of escaping.

Jerry, Derek, Headless, and Boboar would hide in the thick bushes nearby. From there, Jerry would coordinate the operation—as he could mentally communicate with his undead—and Derek would shoot at the bridge’s ropes. At the same time, Foxy would stealthily climb to the platforms and try to reach the hanging bridge herself; if Derek couldn’t shoot it down, maybe she would be able to cut the ropes.

As for Captain Reymond and the eight Billies, they had a separate mission. Jericho was the most important obstacle to overcome, but they still had an entire gang to fight—therefore, the captain’s squad would climb the trees from afar, travel over thick branches with Birb helping them remain unseen, and directly assault the treehouse platforms.

This had come after careful deliberation. A diversion would make Foxy’s task easier, and it would also draw some attention away from Axehand and Boney, if need be. Moreover, as they were heavily outnumbered, Reymond had suggested taking the fight to the wooden platforms. Due to the narrow openings and the limited visibility, only a few of the bandits would be able to fight at the same time, saving them from being overwhelmed.

The Billy squad would also create panic and mayhem, allowing the Billies to take the most direct approach to revenge possible. Fighting on hanging bridges or shaky wooden supports wouldn’t be ideal, but Jerry had come to a stunning realization: the Billies had excellent balance. Though zombies, they were the exact opposite of Headless. Maybe having a head, however light, helped.

Of course, each of the plan’s many legs would occur at the same time. The moment Axehand delivered his first chop against the tree, or when they were discovered, Jerry would give the signal and all hell would break loose.

In the end, what started as a simple plan ended up being quite complex and elaborate, making everyone proud. It was the result of many heads working together, each offering their own insights. Now, all they had to do was wait.

Night fell. The wind died.

The chirping birds changed tune, the diurnal species giving way to the nocturnal. Most of the forest’s critters disappeared, holing up in their nests to wait the night out, and howls cut through the silence as predators woke up. The moon rose into the sky, illuminating the entire wooden complex in patches as it poured through the foliage, and the stars did their best to assist with what little illumination they could provide.

It was a magical sight, as was every night in the forest. The bandits went to sleep, while some of them, grumbling and already bored, stood guard.

There were eighteen of these guards; twelve on the ground and six on the platforms. There were also a few pairs in guard stations peppered in the general vicinity, but those remained there for days on end. None of them expected a night of blood.

“Go, Boney,” Jerry whispered, in constant communication with the other teams. “The others have reached the canopy.”

“Disguises,” the skeleton grumbled, sticking a rag in his mouth to avoid the bone jaw clacking. It didn’t affect his voice. “Fine, fine, I’ll dress up.”

Two new bodies lay atop the back-up undead cart. They were both bandits who used to wear cloaks, and who had the misfortune of approaching a blind spot around the camp. They never knew what happened; Jerry snuffed out their lives like candles.

He felt little remorse. The bandits were his enemies. If he didn’t kill them, they would kill him.

Soon, two cloaked forms stepped out of the bushes, walking toward the clearing below the hideout.

One was a hulking, intimidating form, its features hidden in the shadow of its hood. As it walked, it emanated an air of brutish terror, as if the person inside could, and would, snap you like a twig.

The second figure seemed remarkably more normal, and this was the one that walked ahead, lightly but purposely.

Boney and Axehand almost entered the clearing before they were stopped.

“Halt,” ordered a guard; a slim, young man. His eyes trembled as they took in Axehand’s cloaked form. He coughed once. “Who are you?”

“Sting and Clyde,” said a raspy, oddly smothered voice from within the hood. “We need to speak to the boss.”

The first guard’s companion—they came in pairs—a short and plump one, narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “We didn’t know you were coming.”

The large, hooded figure grunted, startling both guards.

“That’s your problem, dipshit,” the first figure’s raspy voice came again. After a small pause, it continued, “We were sent out by Brad, on the direct orders of Jericho. Have either of them come down, or let us through.”

“We…” The two guards exchanged glances. There was a limit to how zealously a bandit would perform their duties, and the large, menacing, hooded figure came dangerously close to that limit. On the other hand, if trouble came because of them, Jericho would have their heads.

“We really shouldn’t let you through, or we’ll be in serious trouble…” the younger guard said, his voice almost begging. “Can’t you please wait until the morning?”

Two tiny, crimson lights appeared in the depths of the large figure’s hood, where his eyes should be. They couldn’t illuminate anything on his face, but they didn’t have to. Another grunt followed, this one brimming with impatience and the promise of swift, painful violence.

“Listen, kid,” the first figure spoke impatiently, “I don’t care. If you don’t let us in, we will kill you.”

Maybe it was the instinct of self-preservation. Maybe it was the shit in their pants. No matter the reason, both guards immediately and unhesitatingly stepped aside and bowed their heads. They did not speak; not due to obedience, but because they feared their voices shaking.

Amongst bandits, vulnerability was a really good way to have an awful time.

“Heh.” The raspy voice chuckled as the two went through. “Spineless, useless idiots.”

The two guards remained silent. It was only a few moments later, when the footsteps went away, that they dared raise their heads. They exchanged a glance, seeing fear in each other’s eyes and sweat on their faces.

“What the hell was that?” whispered the younger one. “What kind of creature has eyes that shine red?”

“Fuck me if I know!” the other hissed, almost hyperventilating. “Let’s get the hell out of here. We heard something strange in the woods.”

The two of them took off, heading deeper into the darkness. Nobody barred their path. Sometime later, when the sounds of battle would reach their ears, these two would drop everything and run, never to be seen again.

Boney and Axehand strolled through the clearing like they owned it, heading for the towering tree in the center. Ten pairs of eyes were glued to them; the rest of the ground guards hadn’t seen the flickers of red under the hood, but they had heard the entire conversation, and had seen how their comrades scampered off.

They all knew something was up, but could only exchange strained glances. No bandit worth their salt would seek trouble. Besides, the two hooded forms had already gone through; Jericho couldn’t blame the rest of the guards if something happened.

At the end of the day, even if they did confront these two, and if they really had come to create trouble for Jericho, what would the guards do then? Die, that’s what, and get a posthumous word of gratitude worth jack shit.

Boney himself understood their thoughts well, which was why he was surprised when another person blocked their path. It was a hard-eyed woman with long, brown hair which cascaded over the back of her leather armor. She would be beautiful if not for the frozen glint in her eyes.

Fearlessly, she raised a gloved hand at them. “Halt.” Her voice was sharp. “Report yourselves.”

Boney had no eyebrows, but if he did, they would have twitched. “We do not report ourselves to you,” he replied. Axehand grunted impatiently.

“Then you do not step past,” she said simply. “As a guard, I possess the authority to ask you to report yourselves. So go ahead, gentlemen, and be convincing, because I’ve never heard of a Sting or a Clyde in our ranks.”

The clearing froze. The guards watched with wide eyes and cursed under their breaths, while even her guard partner, an older, refined-looking man, gawked warily.

Boney stood in silence, considering his next move. He could just go for the tree—it was pretty close by now—but the sounds of battle would give Jericho a precious bit of extra time; every second counted.

“I will remember this,” he said frigidly.

“My adherence to my duties? Please do.”

Boney sighed, changing tactics. “Our names for this operation are Sting and Clyde. They are fake, for the same reason we wear cloaks. Go tell your superiors we are here. Brad or Jericho will do.”

“I cannot do that,” she responded. “They’re asleep. Wait till morning.”

“It’s important. Let them know at once, or come morning, many of us will die, and you will be the first.”

Her brows furrowed.

Snorting, Boney continued, “Send that useless companion of yours. He’ll climb the ladders by the captives’ house, then cross the left bridge and reach Brad’s. Once he enters, Brad will be in the upper bunk of the far-right corner, unless he’s changed beds recently.”

She hesitated. Boney had just demonstrated knowledge he could only have if he really was one of them—or if he’d captured and thoroughly interrogated one. Her suspicions waned.

“George.” She turned to the older man, who was clearly horribly insulted at being called useless. “Go get Brad, please.”

The man’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “Yes,” he finally got out, turning to climb the ladder.

“Can we sit?” Boney asked. “We’ve traveled long to get here in time.”

“Please,” she replied curtly, her demeanor greatly improved.

Nodding, Boney walked toward the nearby Jericho’s tree, Axehand right behind him. The big skeleton burned with excitement. The guard didn’t move to stop them; they were just going to sit against the tree’s bark, after all. She never could have suspected the truth.

“Ah, finally,” Boney exclaimed as they reached the tree. It was a tremendous giant of wood, digging deep into the soil and stretching high into the sky. They looked up, meeting the bottom of Jericho’s wooden platform.

“That’s terribly far away, isn’t it?” Boney asked, and Axehand grunted in agreement. He could barely contain himself.

From the opposite side of the clearing, the guards spotted bright crimson flames light up inside their hoods, illuminating bare skulls. They froze. Boney smiled in his boney way.

“Axehand,” he said, “cut this damn tree down.”

Axehand shivered in excitement. Throwing his cloak away, he reared his right hand back and whipped it forward, the blade smashing into the bark with enough force to shake the world.

29

THE WORLD’S BEST LUMBERJACK

The moment Axehand threw off his cloak, grunted, and buried his axe-hand in the tree all the way to the forearm, many different things happened at once.

The surrounding guards froze; two of them screamed and ran away, while the others reached for their weapons, roared, and attacked. Boney also took off his cloak and grabbed the sword hanging from his waist. Taking up position behind Axehand, he pointed it at the incoming guards—he used to be a bandit, too, and was somewhat familiar with swordplay.

“Come, and you’ll join me in death,” he said. They hesitated.

Jerry, knowing that Boney wasn’t too good with the sword, led his two remaining undead into a charge. With a bone-chilling bellow, Headless grabbed a spear and jumped on top of Boboar. The two of them unleashed themselves on the battlefield.

Jerry himself approached much more silently, trying to remain unnoticeable—unlike his undead, he was quite fragile—while severing the soul of any guard unfortunate enough to enter his attack range. His soul had grown stronger than it used to be. When facing humans, nine feet was the range he needed for the weakest of wills, while particularly determined or powerful individuals could resist his magic even at point-blank.

Boney, Boboar, and Headless got entangled with the eight remaining ground guards in a shower of blood, flesh, and gore. Bodies went flying, people were screaming at Headless’s severed head, which screamed back—especially terrifying at night—while Jerry assisted from the shadows.

As for Axehand himself, he kept hacking away at the tree, shaking it so violently that a shower of leaves cascaded from above. He grunted between swings, and if one listened carefully, they’d be able to make out a jolly tune in rhythm with his hacks. He was, after all, a lumberjack.

However, he’d grossly underestimated the number of swings he needed to fell the tree; he was already at five, and the poor thing held well still.

The screams and sounds of battle naturally reached the treehouses, but the people there were equally busy.

Eight terrifying forms had descended from the branches above, moving with the ease of monkeys despite their considerable bulk; they bore wounds grievous to any human, yet fought with wild abandon. Even the slowest of bandits could understand what they faced: zombies. A necromancer. A living nightmare.

The bandits screamed as they were assaulted by the gorilla-like Billies, and a few handfuls of them fell in the initial skirmish. The more authoritative bandits stepped up to organize their people; the complex network of wooden platforms and hanging bridges soon turned into an intricate battlefield, with a bald, sizable bandit leading one side, and Captain Reymond leading the other.

The Billy squad was vastly outnumbered but held every other advantage. They were not surprised, unarmed, undressed, or just awoken; they moved through the wildly rocking bridges with the grace of monkeys; they had time to prepare a plan beforehand, and they possessed leadership an entire league above their enemies. Captain Reymond, after all, was a veteran war officer.

Moreover, the Billies’ morale was infallible, much unlike their enemies, a good number of whom screamed and fled in blind panic.

“Fight, my men!” Captain Reymond shouted, standing in the middle of their occupied area and scrutinizing this unorthodox battlefield. “Show them the might of the Billies!” He had reluctantly accepted the name.

Foxy, meanwhile, had taken advantage of the ruckus to stealthily approach the long, hanging bridge connecting Jericho’s treehouse to the rest of the network. She stuck out a claw⁠—

And an arrow whistled through the air, tearing apart one of the ropes that supported the bridge. The entire thing turned on its side, hanging by a single long rope. Foxy peered down, snorted, then cut the remaining rope; the wooden bridge tumbled to the far-off ground, landing on a couple unlucky bandits in a cloud of dust and splinters.

Then, turning around, she swaggered over to help the Billies. Unseen from behind, she could claim quite some lives.

Billy One—formerly named Rudolf—swayed with the bridge as he hacked and slashed at the unfortunate people facing him. He barely knew how to use the sword, but so did they.

A terrified bandit fell to his blade, cleaved cleanly in two; Billy One pushed his weight onto the side of the bridge, making it move like a swing before using the next bandit’s loss of momentum to strike against⁠—

A blade met Billy One’s, parrying it in a shower of sparks. Under their illumination, the zombie’s gaze found a bandit in a black bandana gazing coldly back. The zombie roared, thirsty for battle.

On a wildly swinging bridge fifty feet off the ground, Billy One and his black-bandana opponent traded blows.

All eight of the Billies, some fighting alone and some in pairs, had met resistance in the form of black-bandana bandits. These were better armed, better trained, and vastly more experienced than their peers; they were Jericho’s elites. Against the terrifying Billies, they held their ground, and gradually, the Billies weren’t that terrifying anymore.

Finding a moment of respite, the rest of the bandits calmed enough to remember they had crossbows. One bolt after another was shot, most missing but some finding purchase, and the Billies roared with each hit; a few crossbow bolts weren’t a problem to the undead, but too many would be.

Captain Reymond hid behind his shield as he observed the battle. Things were turning grim, but that wasn’t a surprise. They never hoped to win in the first place, all they wanted was to last long enough for Jericho to fall. Then, they might have hope.

Of the several black-bandana bandits, a few had fallen already, but the Billies weren’t invincible either.

The bandit leader commanding the men, that bald giant of a man, stepped onto a bridge. A black bandana had just fallen, and the bald man met Billy Three. In merely two exchanges, the zombie was disarmed, beheaded, and flung off the bridge. He landed with a sickening thud.

The bald bandit crossed eyes with Reymond, then pointed his greatsword over. The captain felt his tension melt into energy. Years of experience came back, reminding him of the hot-blooded young warrior he used to. Under his mustache, Reymond showed a savage, gleeful grin as he unflinchingly met his enemy’s death stare.

Both leaders had deployed their troops. Now, it was time to fight.

With a bloodthirsty roar, Captain Reymond stepped onto the hanging bridge, crossing the bald man’s blade. His blood boiled, and his mind was empty, save for one thing: The will to fight!

Headless swung his brutal spear around, smashing through the guards just as Boboar did below him. The two were unstoppable, and the remaining guards were already teetering on the brink of collapse. Reinforcements arrived from above, but the undead had established their advantage and weren’t giving it up anytime soon.

Headless noticed a guard glance at where his master hid. In a panic, the zombie tossed his head at the guard; it smacked against his throat and bit away an important piece of flesh.

The guard screamed, his attention returning to the unstoppable duo. Headless had fulfilled his purpose, but he was now left completely headless. The head lay fallen a bit farther away, gazing at the battle at a slanted angle. There was no time to retrieve it. He’d need to fight like this, massively weakening himself.

Behind Axehand’s happily chopping form, Boney was occupying two guards by himself. One was the overzealous woman who’d first stopped them, and the other, the refined-looking man who served as her pair.

The two of them repeatedly clashed against Boney, who, despite his previous bravado, was getting his ass handed to him. It was only his natural durability as a skeleton that kept him alive—or undead—but even that wouldn’t last forever.

Suddenly, he was disarmed, his sword flying away.

I’m sorry, Master, he thought, watching the blades approach him. I did my best. Live a good unlife.

Then, they halted. The older man fell dead on the spot while the woman clutched her head and screamed, dropping her weapon. A smiling figure walked up from behind them, his calmness seeming out-of-place on the battlefield.

“Good job, Boney. Thank you for holding them back.”

“Master…” Boney lacked the ability to shed tears, but if he could, he would have cried a river. “You saved me!”

“Of course I did. How could I let my beloved butler die?”

Right then, with a final happy grunt, Axehand’s jolly humming reached its crescendo, and the tree moaned.

It wasn’t a simple sound. It filled everyone’s being and rocked their souls, turning even their thoughts silent.

With a second, even more otherworldly moan, the tree tipped over.

The battle took time to describe, but from the moment Axehand landed the first chop to when the bald bandit leader clashed with Reymond, to when the tree fell, less than half a minute had gone by.

On Jericho’s treehouse, the door flew off its hinges and a half-dressed, wild-haired giant walked out. His gang was under attack, and even worse, someone was assaulting the large tree, his brother, at this very moment. This was unacceptable—Jericho’s rage seethed and bubbled, making his long hair hover and his entire body glow green.

For a single second, his eyes glazed over as he took in the battle, then the destroyed wooden bridge; the closest platform was at least twenty feet away. He could jump that far, of course, and that’s exactly what he prepared to do, but not before announcing his presence. Taking a deep breath, he roared:

“WHO DARES⁠—”

And then came the moan. The all-encompassing death throe of his brother tree. He was an earth spirit; to him, this sound was soul-wrenching, reaching all the way to his soul and paralyzing him. It took him a moment to recover, and then came the second moan.

“NO!” he screamed in despair, his voice echoing for miles, but it was too late. The tree tipped. The floor slanted under his bare feet, and he turned around only to see his treehouse topple toward him. From where the door used to be, books and paper rained out, and his entire desk slid downward. He didn’t care about those, they were merely material possessions, but his tree brother was falling!

“NO!” he bellowed again, utterly despairing. In his panic, he chose to stand his ground, placing his gigantic palms against the walls and pushing with all his superhuman strength. He wanted to right his fallen brother, to save it.

Which was, of course, impossible. Jericho was standing on the tree he was trying to push.

The fall continued unhindered, the wooden platform turning more and more vertical below Jericho’s feet until they were falling, and the massive tree trunk loomed over him. He could not fly, could not right himself.

He bellowed one final, desperate time.

And with a massive, earth-shaking thud, the entire behemoth of a tree landed on the ground, raising dust and shaking the world.

Or, to be more precise, it all landed right on Jericho’s head.

30

PAYING ONE’S DUES

The collapse of a gigantic tree was a slow but tense sight.

The behemoth was almost a hundred feet tall, towering over everything else in the forest. Its dark bark moaned and screamed as it titled, the tree’s own weight ripping its roots apart, and then it fell.

The entire forest shook. The tree’s crown, long entangled with the wide foliage, made a series of cracking sounds as it was forcefully dislodged. The nearby trees protested, their topmost branches and leaves crumbling, entwined as they were. As the massive tree made its way down, the sky rained wood, and the swirling leaves came soon after.

The battle had screeched to a complete halt. On the ground, everyone ran for their lives. On the treehouses, survival became a challenge as everything shook. Several bandits fell, screaming before going silent, and even Reymond himself almost lost his balance before dropping on all fours and hugging the bridge for dear life.

The remaining five Billies, thanks to their balance, all made it.

“NO!” a desperate, unwilling scream cut through the noise, flooding everyone’s ears and reaching toward the sky. The sound was so strong that a few bandits grew disoriented, losing their balance and falling to the far-off ground.

In front of everyone’s eyes, Jericho struggled to hold up the tree—an impossible task, however herculean he might be. One man fought against the odds and did his best, making for an almost heartbreaking sight before the large tree slammed on top of said man and obliterated him.

Wow, Jerry thought, mouth gaping. Invincible or not, there’s no way he survived that.

The massive tree had been toppled, squashing a few smaller trees on its way. An earthquake occurred, as well as a monumental amount of terrified animal sounds from everywhere, before everything suddenly regained their peace. The ground stopped shaking, and the sounds stopped their assault. Everything was as it used to be, save for the massive fallen tree and the death of Jericho.

Reymond gazed at his opponent; the bald, towering bandit.

“Will you keep fighting?” he asked. The bandit pointed his greatsword at Reymond, who laughed. “Great!”

Standing up on the hanging bridge, Captain Reymond swung with force, meeting the bandit’s greatsword head-on. His reflexes may have waned with age, but his battle experience had only grown richer. At this moment, standing atop a swinging, hanging bridge, Captain Reymond was at his peak.

He roared as he fought, unleashing attack after attack, but his opponent held on. This bandit was shaping up, actually. Reymond’s expertise was met in kind, and any deficiencies were made up by the bandit’s superior strength.

Captain Reymond had served on the Wall and in the Escarbot army’s elite force for years. He’d endured grueling training by the best, fought in endless life-and-death battles, and rose through the ranks until last year, when he retired to enjoy the peaceful life of an inner kingdom guard.

He was supremely skilled. No bandit should be able to match him.

“Who are you?” Reymond asked in shock, their blades entwined in a complex dance of death and metal.

“None of your godsdamn business,” the bandit spat out in a deep, rough voice, speaking for the first time.

One strike followed another as they fought, equally matched. Their battle dragged on, and a single mistake would determine the victor.

Around them, the Billies fought on as well. Most of the bandits had retreated after Jericho’s fall, panickily stomping toward the ladders, sending many of their brethren tumbling to the ground in their blind rush.

The Billies chased them down.

Arrows still rained from every direction, but the Billies did not care, for they were zombies.

Only Reymond was troubled by the arrows, but the bandits didn’t pay him much mind. They had full confidence in their bald leader.

Suddenly, Reymond struck a hit against the bald man, pushing him back and earning himself a respite. Taking a deep breath, he opened his mouth to release a tremendous roar.

“You’ll all die!” he declared loudly. “Surrender and you’ll be spared!”

Each time a Billy fell was like a nail driven into his heart. He knew that, once an undead was destroyed, they could no longer be reanimated.

A particular bandit made his way down a far-off ladder designed to mesh with the bark. Plopping his feet on the earth, he allowed himself a deep, long sigh before breaking into a run.

The bandit’s usually handsome face was now riddled with worry, while his bare, marble-chiseled chest was matted in dirt.

I made it! Brad thought as he ran. Hah! Let those suckers kill themselves. I’m out of here!

His right leg went cold. He tumbled to the ground, and when he looked behind him in confusion, he saw an arrow sticking out of his thigh.

“What?” he muttered, unable to believe it.

“You must be Brad.”

A large, menacing figure walked out of the woods. It was a dark-skinned man, machete in one hand and bow in the other, while his eyes bore a storm.

“I—Yes, sir!” Brad cried out. The cold receded from his leg, letting in a burning itch which turned into searing pain. “Ah!” he screamed. “My leg! Fuck, fuck, my leg!”

“You’re lucky it was your leg,” the man above him rumbled. “I aimed for slightly higher.”

Cold sweat poured out of Brad’s face.

“Who are you?” he muttered.

The man’s eyes filled with darkness.

“I’m Holly’s father, you filth, and I’m here for revenge.”

“Holly?” Brad’s mind exploded with fear. “It was a joke! A joke! I love her! She loves me!”

The man put away his bow, grabbing the machete with both hands. His grip tightened.

“I’ve caught many animals, boy, but you’re the dirtiest of them all.”

He took a step, raising his weapon high.

“No!” Brad screamed, crawling backward. He was already so blinded by fear that he couldn’t feel his pierced leg, couldn’t think. However, no matter how fast he crawled, the looming man was faster.

“No!” Brad screamed again. “Spare me! I will give you anything, I swear! I won’t do it again! Men, help me! Help!”

But, how could anyone come to his assistance? It was Brad himself who had run away from his men. The machete fell.

“Burn in hell, you son of a bitch.”

“NO!”

Brad’s scream continued even after his head had been severed. His body slumped, and to the side, his head stilled, eyes forever frozen open.

Derek stood over the corpse, taking in the grim spectacle. He shook his head. Then, wordlessly, he placed the bloodied machete on his shoulder and walked away, leaving Brad’s body as food for the forest critters.

Revenge had been had.

On the ground battle, the situation grew more and more hectic. There had only been eight guards at the start, half of them dead already, but a steady stream of fleeing bandits rushed down the ladders. Some chose to keep fleeing, but a few joined their brethren and fought against the undead.

Headless was being overwhelmed, what with his head tossed aside, and Boboar was struggling to make it. In the end, he was just a strong boar, and many bandits were experienced enough to jump aside when he charged.

Jerry was assisting them from the side, having hidden in the bushes again, and Boney intercepted whoever approached said bushes. It was a downhill battle.

That all changed when Axehand felled the tree and turned on the bandits, his bark-sprinkled axe-hands shining in the moonlight. They’d frozen, then roared and charged him; with their superiority over Headless and Boboar, their confidence had resurged.

Axehand released a mocking grunt. His thick white bulk erupted with strength, chopping them apart as one would vegetables. The bandits were powerless to resist. More were felled with each swing, like saplings before a lumberjack, until their roars turned into screams and confidence turned into panic.

The tables had turned.

“You’ll die!” a bellow came from above. “Surrender and you’ll be spared!”

The bandits reacted as if they’d seen the light; they dropped their weapons at once, some still running and others falling flat on the ground. Axehand’s blade paused in front of a man’s throat.

On the treehouses and bridges above, the panicking bandits dropped their weapons and screamed their surrender. Even the black bandanas faltered, and the bald man facing Reymond hesitated.

“Stop.” He raised a palm. “We surrender.”

His voice was low yet echoed over the entire battle.

“Give me your blade,” said Reymond.

“Over my dead body.”

“…Just don’t try anything funny.”

“I won’t if you don’t.”

“Good.”

Reymond organized the descent from above, arranging the captured bandits into lines in front of the ladders. Jerry, meanwhile, had rounded up the ground-level guards under Axehand’s watchful eyes.

“Good job, everyone.” The necromancer smiled. “You did great.”

The undead cheered; the battle had gone perfectly, everything according to plan. Of their numbers, only three Billies had fallen, and Jerry hadn’t even had a chance to use his back-up skeletons. It was a resounding, near-perfect victory.

“I must say”—Derek approached—“I did not expect things to go this smoothly.”

“Neither did I!” Reymond showed a big smile. “This plan sounded far too ludicrous to work.”

“Why?” Jerry asked. “Details aside, we just had the world’s greatest lumberjack cut down a tree. Seems fine to me.”

“Details aside, he says.” Reymond laughed. “You’re a piece of art, my boy, a piece of art. I have to admit, I never expected to fight side by side with a necromancer.”

“How about with a friend?”

Reymond gave a piercing glare. “Aye,” he finally said. “I could do that.”

Jerry smiled. “You totally kicked their asses up there, Captain. I tip my hat to you and the Billies, and also to Derek, who managed to land that shot.”

“You don’t have a hat, Master,” Boney said.

“It was nothing,” Derek said. “In fact, I did so little that I’m ashamed. Credit goes to the two of you and all our undead friends.”

Jerry turned toward his undead, giving them a warm, proud smile. “Yeah…”

“I hate to interrupt,” Boney stepped in, motioning toward the waiting bandits, “but what should we do with them?”

“We’ll get to that. Let’s look for Jericho’s body first.” Derek tapped his bloody machete where it rested against his shoulder. “There was a hefty bounty on his head, if I remember correctly.”

Reymond winked. “Oh, you do.”

“Good, then let’s⁠—”

“Wait a moment,” the captain spoke up, turning to the leader of the black bandanas. “Show me your wrist.”

The bandit stared, and Reymond stared back. A moment later, the black-bandana man raised his left hand and pulled up the sleeve, revealing the tattoo of a simple, small, multicolored feather.

Reymond gasped. So did Derek.

“Sworn…” the captain said. His gaze darkened. “What the hell do your wizard overlords want with this forest?”

“As I said”—the Sworn leader lowered his sleeve—“none of your goddamn business.”

Reymond frowned. “No, you will tell me, or⁠—”

As if on cue, the earth rumbled. The undead, relaxing thus far, tensed up. Jerry, Derek, and Reymond looked around, while the bandits were all terrified and huddled closer together. The black bandanas formed a defensive formation. They were disarmed but not tied yet—there had been no time.

The earth shook again, and the air rumbled as if the world was about to explode. A sense of tremendous, horrifying power assaulted everyone, making their ears ring and their eyes waver. The earth moaned and howled, the wind picked up, and the entire forest shook.

“This can’t be good,” Jerry said.

The crown of the massive, fallen tree exploded. Wood and leaves flew everywhere as a hole was created in the debris, allowing a single figure to step through. The second he appeared, the air turned dense and the forest greener. Terror gripped everyone’s hearts like a cold, iron hand.

Jericho stood there in all his glory. His wild dark hair fluttered in the wind, his seven-foot-tall body pulsing with power. He was practically steeped in green blood, but even as everyone watched, tendrils of golden energy crawled up his body from the ground below, healing him, closing his more than deadly wounds, reforming his organs.

His body was filled with golden crevices which slowly grew thinner. As he stood there, his mere presence exuded undeniable, utterly dominating power. Gone was the refined man, gone was the razor-sharp grace. He was a beast of rage, a man pushed to the brink, a natural disaster waiting to happen, an absolute monster. In front of this force of nature, it didn’t matter how many they were; there was nothing they could do. Death was certain.

Jericho’s eyes shone green as he turned them at Jerry and roared, “I WILL FUCKING DESTROY YOU!”

“Oh, come one!” Jerry said. “That’s so unfair!”

31

NATURE’S WRATH

Jericho’s voice shook the leaves with its supernatural intensity. He stood on top of the fallen tree—his brother’s corpse—looking down on everyone.

Below him, everyone shared the same thought. He really is invincible…

There was no way anyone could survive that unless they were immortal. Which, in turn, meant they stood no hope at all. Everyone was frozen, even the bandits, as they knew their leader’s rage was savage and wild, often incurring side casualties.

Everyone except Jerry.

“Jericho! Silly you, what were you doing on that tree?” He shook his head. “I swear, you chop down one tree for firewood, and what do you find on top? An earth spirit. My luck is terrible these days, isn’t it?”

“I will fill your undead body with worms, necromancer,” Jericho seethed. A hint of the previous, sharp intelligence reemerged in his eyes, but it only made him deadlier.

“I will tie you on the treetops for the vultures to feast on; I will let the maggots breed in your body until your accursed soul begs me for release, and do you know what I’ll do then? I’ll bury you alive, trapping your soul in the forest’s roots so you can never escape, and I will let the creatures of the earth feast until not even your bones remain. Then, and only then, will I let them devour the very essence of your soul.”

Jerry raised his arms. “I can tell you’re upset, and I get it. A tree fell on your head; anyone would be grumpy after that. Let’s just take things slow, all right? There is a very good explanation for this just waiting to be heard!”

A vivid green aura burst out of Jericho’s body, showering his surroundings with light. He took a step forward, and the bark cracked by the sheer power he exuded.

“Run!”

Nobody knew who shouted it first, but the bandits fled in random directions—even the black bandanas, the Sworn, didn’t hesitate in the slightest. Reymond gritted his teeth at their retreating backs, though right now, he couldn’t spare any attention for them. The Wizard Order’s intentions weren’t a secret, anyway.

“Run, Master!” Boney shouted. “We’ll cover you!”

The undead took position in front of their master, united in one purpose, crimson flames burning brighter than ever before. They couldn’t win anymore; maybe they never could. All they hoped was to let Jerry escape.

The necromancer’s heart shook as he watched his undead, his friends and children, array themselves in front of him, ready to defend him with their lives.

“Everyone…” His thoughts blurred. He recalled raising each and every one of them; Boboar and Foxy, who kept him company throughout his journeys in the forest; Boney, the witty, humorous butler who managed the details Jerry never could; Headless, the balance-troubled zombie, who worked hard for months to learn to control his body; Axehand, the world’s greatest lumberjack, the skeleton competitive enough to create a giant snowman by himself and also gentle enough to carve a detailed statue of Jerry; and Birb, that fluttering, passionate watcher.

As well as the Billies, those gorilla-like bumpkins.

They had all fought together, and now, to save his life… they would sacrifice theirs?

No!

Jerry’s eyes turned pitch-black. “Heed my command,” he declared, his voice pulsing with soul-stirring intensity. “All of you, run away.”

The undead resisted; Jerry could feel their souls wrestling against his, and it was exhausting. Only now did he realize how much easier it was when they cooperated; if his undead didn’t want to serve him, let alone fifteen, he couldn’t even maintain three of them!

But he could give them a single command, at the cost of his soul’s exhaustion.

“Master…” Boney begged, but their souls were bent to Jerry’s will. The undead broke, running off in many directions just like the bandits, escaping and leaving their master behind.

Jerry smiled. “Goodbye, my friends. Live good unlives.”

“You want to run?” Jericho started laughing. “You have incurred my ire, necromancer. My bandits can escape, but I swear that your ungodly creations will suffer alongside you.”

The earth shook once more. The nearby trees wilted before roots speared out of the ground, lengthening and widening with speed visible to the naked eye. Soon, the roots had formed a ring around the clearing. All the undead were still inside; and, as they charged at the roots, slamming into them or hacking away with everything they had, a green aura shimmered around them and repaired the damage.

Derek pulled his bow taut and let loose an arrow, but it only managed to pierce one of the roots, and there were many layers of them.

“We’re trapped!” he shouted.

“You cannot run!” Jericho laughed. “Mother is furious at you, necromancer. Your existence is a blight, an insult to her, and you trying to murder me was the straw that broke the horse’s back. She wants you all to die, and I shall be her hand.”

“Can we really do nothing?” Derek shouted, sending arrow after arrow at the roots, but it was useless. Even Axehand, chopping away with all his strength, could barely match their regeneration speed.

“Everyone!”

A hard, calloused voice spread over the clamor. All eyes turned to Captain Reymond, who glared at Jericho with his sword drawn.

“All of you, team up and focus on breaking past a section of the roots. Let me and my men delay this monster.”

“Captain!” Jerry cried out.

“Silence, boy! We can’t all make it. I’m an old man; I’ve lived my life to the fullest, and I’d be glad to give my life in the service of the king. Give me control over my men; they, too, have nothing to live for, and I cannot stop this monster by myself. Let us die with honor.”

Jerry’s heart shook, and his eyes widened as he took in Reymond’s broad back. He, a normal human, faced certain death head-on. What a man!

“Hurry up!” the captain barked. “Do you want me to die for nothing?”

“Yes, Captain!” Jerry cried out. His mind drifted to the Billies, giving them free rein over themselves, and they unhesitatingly chose to stand by Reymond. In their simple souls, they truly did respect their captain. They would gladly die with him.

“Focus around Axehand, everyone!” Jerry ordered. “We must break through!”

The undead threw themselves at the roots, attacking wildly in any way they could. Axes, spears, axe-hands, swords, necromancy, everything assaulted a specific section of the roots, and they finally started progressing. Little by little, the roots retreated, their regeneration unable to keep up with the assault.

Seeing this, Jericho snorted.

“You can die first, then.”

Springing from a crouch, he barreled toward the Billy squad, where Reymond and his five Billies stood arrayed in two rows of three, the captain at the very front and center.

“Men!” he hollered. “Hold!”

They buckled down to receive Jericho, and he, with his green aura roaring, slammed right into them.

Reymond’s determination was commendable, as was the Billies’. However, in the face of sheer, unadulterated power, all the bravery in the world was useless.

Jericho smashed into the Billy squad, and they all flew away like bowling pins. They were completely powerless to resist. Though their weapons struck Jericho, all they could do was scratch him, and even those shallow wounds quickly regenerated.

“Fools!” the earth spirit shouted. “I command the power of the earth! It is endless! You cannot stop me!”

Reymond and the Billies crashed against the far side of the root wall and fell to the ground. They weren’t ruined yet, thanks to their defense formation, but they struggled to get up.

At the same time, Jerry’s eyes shone dark as all the undead from the back-up cart rose—they’d brought it along before, so it was within the root encirclement. Raising so many undead at once took a serious toll on Jerry, but they wouldn’t last long.

Jericho was suddenly surrounded by an incomplete bear skeleton, a four-armed one, a bear-clawed tusked humanoid, and a tusked fox. Even the eight-armed skeleton rushed Jericho, flailing its arms wildly.

Seeing this circus approach, Jericho snorted in rage. “Fuck off!” he shouted. His fists plowed through the zombies at full power, and any wound he received was almost instantly regenerated.

At the end of the day, there weren’t many of these undead—the cart was somewhat small—and they were completely untrained in combat. Within a few seconds, Jericho had obliterated them, breaking them all apart and sending pieces of bones flying. Even the bear skeleton was easily overpowered.

Jericho turned his angry stare at Jerry, and with a snarl, rushed over.

By then, Reymond and the Billies had stood back up. They could still fight, but they were dangerously close to the limit. Reymond’s good arm had been broken, but he simply grabbed his sword with the other.

“Men!” he shouted. “For the king!”

The Billies roared, and all of them once again attacked Jericho. However, he’d had enough of fighting minions. In the time they needed to get up, he’d already reached Jerry’s location, where everyone was attacking the roots.

Jericho’s green eyes shone brighter. “You won’t get away, necromancer.”

“Jerry!”

“Master!”

Jerry’s earlier command to escape had been overridden when he’d commanded them to attack the roots. As one, the undead all threw themselves in Jericho’s way, and arrow after arrow left Derek’s quiver until he ran out.

It was all useless.

“Hahaha!” Jericho laughed as he plowed through everything. “How can you dream to stop me? My power is limitless!”

Axehand appeared next to Jericho, so fast he was a blur, and chopped out. Jericho grabbed the axe. It embedded itself into his hand up to the wrist, but its power was spent, and the blade was stuck. Jericho laughed as he smashed a knee into Axehand’s face, sending him flying. His torn hand was already regenerating.

If even Axehand failed, the other undead were hopeless. Nobody could stop Jericho.

Three strides later, Jericho had made it to Jerry’s side, a grim smile on his face. He’d plowed through everyone in his way. “It’s over, necromancer. I don’t care how undead you are; I’ll just kill you over and over until you go down.”

“I’m not an undead,” Jerry felt the need to point out, “just your casual next-door necromancer.”

“What?” Jericho paused, and then he started laughing. “Haha… Hahaha! A necromancer who thinks he’s still alive… Oh, the irony!”

Jerry was puzzled. “Excuse me?”

“You are dead, necromancer. Dead! You have been for a long time. That’s what necromancers are—bodies that keep working after death. How did you not realize it? I guess you really are mentally challenged. Pathetic.”

Jerry’s eyes shot wide. I’m dead?

That’s all he had time to think before Jericho’s shovel-like hand reached for his throat, wrapping around it and lifting him up. The necromancer smiled grimly, all complicated thoughts leaving his mind.

Now!

Palms glowing the deepest black he could muster, he grabbed Jericho’s forearm with both hands. Strands of his will passed through the connection, entering Jericho’s body with the force of a flood and assaulting the earth spirit’s soul.

His body was indestructible, but his soul might not be! This all-out attack could incapacitate even the strongest of warriors!

Jerry’s soul clashed against Jericho’s, and it felt like punching a steel wall. The recoil almost knocked Jerry unconscious. For a moment, he was a dot on an enormous green and blue ball, teeming with such boundless vitality that Jerry almost lost himself. It was colossal, titanic, unimaginably gigantic.

He felt it, then; Jericho was one person, but at this moment, the will of nature itself supported him. The energy of the entire green sphere was flowing toward Jericho, simply waiting its turn to fill him up, and it was so large as to be practically infinite. Even Jericho’s soul was fortified by this energy.

He truly was invincible. They never stood a chance.

“Nice try.” The earth spirit revealed a wide, cold smile. He hoisted Jerry up, still holding him by the throat; the necromancer was helpless. “However, nothing can possibly harm me under my mother’s shelter. Any last words?”

Jerry coughed. “Yes,” he got out. “Please spare them.”

Jericho’s smile was cold, and his voice was heavy, “I will not.” He reveled in Jerry’s despair; he reveled in the pain, hatred, and helplessness he saw in those terrified eyes. His mother’s wrath was boundless, and he was its conduit. He would let it all out.

“Goodnight, necromancer.”

He tightened his grip, cutting off Jerry’s breath and leaving him suffocating. He had, after all, promised him a fitting death; he needed the necromancer unconscious for now. Everyone else would die.

“AHHH!” With a roar, Billy Five tackled Jericho, managing to push his considerable bulk off the ground and a single step forward.

“You annoying fly.” Jericho frowned, throwing a backhand slap at the Billy. The zombie’s head was pulverized; he flew into the far-off wall of roots and did not stand again.

However, Billy Five had pushed Jericho off the ground. And, in that single moment when the earth spirit was airborne, a spark went off in Jerry’s suffocating brain. Jericho’s endless supply of energy… had been momentarily cut off!

It’s the earth! he realized. That’s why he’s always barefoot! He needs his feet on the earth!

Everything made sense now. The golden power running up his body, the endless energy flowing into him from the vast earth. Yes, it really was endless, but it had to reach him to matter! There had to be a weakness!

Axehand! With the last dregs of his will, Jerry sent a mental message to Axehand, giving him an order.

The bone giant had already been rushing at Jericho. Hearing Jerry’s command, he changed course, planting his feet in the ground and coming to a stop right behind Jericho.

“Hmm?” the earth spirit said. “What are you up to this time?”

Axehand grunted. Jericho had already beat him up twice, and Axehand was a very, very proud undead. It was time for revenge.

Snaking his bone arms under Jericho’s, Axehand locked his axe blades together in front of the earth spirit’s waist. Then, before Jericho could realize what was happening, with a massive grunt… Axehand lifted him up!

Jericho’s eyes went wide, his grip over Jerry momentarily slacking. “No!” he roared, squirming and frantically trying to strike Axehand. Unfortunately for him, that momentary respite of air in Jerry’s lungs was enough. Once again grabbing Jericho’s forearm, he sent the full brunt of his soul hurtling forward, smashing against the earth spirit’s soul.

The recoil felt as if his head was splitting apart, but this time, it wasn’t useless. He could feel it—Jericho’s endless supply of power was cut off. He was still choke-full of energy, but it was depleting.

Hope reignited in Jerry’s heart, allowing him to endure the pain. He once again smashed his soul against Jericho’s, suffering the recoil. Jericho screamed, too. In a moment of pain, he let Jerry go, and the necromancer slumped to the ground in front of the two wrestling giants.

“Attack, everyone!” Jerry shouted. “Don’t let him touch the earth!”

By this point, Jerry couldn’t see; his entire world was white. His scream would have to be enough. He could not allow Jericho to recover. Enduring the pain, he once again rammed against Jericho’s soul. Over and over. He couldn’t really feel anything anymore except for the pain.

However, this was where Jerry’s single-mindedness shone.

His soul wouldn’t actually break. The pain was only a reflex, an illusion, and if he could endure it, that would be the extent of it. And oh, could Jerry endure.

Very few people in the world could handle such intense soul strain, but fortunately, Jerry was one of them. He’d spent fifteen years enduring. He could handle a few seconds!

This hellish pain would have brought most people to their knees, but he stepped forth, again and again, smashing against Jericho’s soul with all his strength. He could feel it; Jericho’s energy was depleting. So was Jerry’s. Would he last long enough? He didn’t know. He only knew to attack.

In fact, this process was strengthening his soul at a speed he never thought possible.

In the outside world, everyone had heard Jerry’s shout and rushed over. They peppered Jericho with attacks—arrows, axes, swords, spears, you name it—and the giant could only roar, ineffectively striking at Axehand. His energy was no longer endless, and so his strength was no longer infinite. Moreover, from his backwards airborne position, he really couldn’t put much force into his strikes.

Axehand’s skull had dented, and several bones were broken, but he stood tall out of sheer spite. Just like his master, he refused to fall.

Jericho screamed, roared, and yelled, his energy rapidly running out. No matter how many times he smacked Axehand, the skeleton remained standing, and Jericho himself only grew weaker with time.

“No!” he cried out. “I can’t die! Save me, Mother!”

The earth rumbled and cracked, the ground shaking under their feet, but Axehand stood tall. By now, he could no longer stand by himself, and the four remaining Billies were all leaning on him to support him. They wouldn’t let him fall. If he did, Jericho’s power would be instantly replenished, and they would all perish.

The full brunt of nature’s wrath was directed at them from all directions, filling the very air around them, but without a conduit, it was useless.

Eventually, Jericho’s waning strength crossed a threshold, and he was now too weak. Despair gripped his heart, along with a cold realization.

I am going to die.

The thought flooded him, as final as the earth he worshipped. He held no doubts about it; he truly would die.

Screaming in despair, he accepted it, then stopped trying to escape; he couldn’t do it anyway. Though his hatred had not yet been exhausted.

“YOU!” he madly screamed out, looking at Jerry’s empty-eyed form. Their soul war was still ongoing. “IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT! DIE!”

Jerry could not move himself, but Boney had already moved him farther away. Now, in a final act of hatred, Jericho combusted his entire power, sending a brilliant arc of green toward Jerry.

“No!” Boney shouted, but he was too far. He could only watch as the green ball of death hurtled toward his master…

Until a broad chest got in the way.

“HALT!” Reymond shouted, pushing his only remaining hand forward. He made contact. The ball of green instantly snapped his armored arm, its trajectory slightly altered, and smashed into his chest. Reymond couldn’t move. The power struck him with such force that he was catapulted backward, flying inches over Jerry’s kneeling form and smashing against the roots with enough force to destroy half the layers.

Reymond’s body lay there, completely unmoving. All life had left his eyes.

“No!” Jericho cursed, buried under a torrent of attacks. “NO! I curse you, necromancer! I curse you!”

Headless’s spear crashed against Jericho’s head, breaking it open like a watermelon, and this time, it did not regenerate. His eyes went hollow. Everyone kept raining attacks on the body, not daring to stop. Jericho’s corpse shuddered. Little by little, then faster, it broke apart into clear soil, crumbling through Axehand’s arms and onto the ground below.

Everyone kept pounding the soil with attacks, but it was over.

The roots dissipated. The earth’s impotent rage receded, and the forest went quiet. The soil remained soil, completely lifeless. Jericho had returned to his mother’s embrace, forever. He was dead.

Jericho the Green was no more.

Jerry slumped over, fainting from exhaustion. The Billies slowly lowered Axehand to the ground; he was still alive—or unalive—but so broken he could hardly move.

Then, the Billies turned toward their captain’s body and fell to their knees, expressing their grief and gratitude. Jerry hadn’t ordered them to do it. This time, it came from their souls.

The rest of the undead hurried toward Jerry, eager to somehow take care of him, while Derek followed, already retrieving bandages and herbs from a sack on his waist.

The only one left over the soil that used to be Jericho was Boney, who knew Jerry didn’t need him. He gazed at the harmless soil, a random, everyday patch in the forest, and the reality of Jericho’s death hit him. Relief washed all over him.

Raising his head to the skies, Tom Boney took a deep breath and released a massive yell, letting his voice be carried by the winds.

“We won!”

32

REST IN PEACE

“Ohhhhh…” With a drawn-out groan, Jerry’s eyelids fluttered open. He was cold for a moment, incredibly cold, before the feeling receded and his body started working again.

“Master!” a joyous cry came from the side, followed by a chorus of happy, unintelligible sounds.

Jerry smiled. “Hello, everyone,” he said, turning his head toward the noise. “I gave you a scare, didn’t I?”

“Master!” Boney cried out again, falling on Jerry to hug him.

“Oof! I’m fine, Boney!” He laughed.

All the undead were standing around Jerry, showering him with as much warmth as undead could possess. In Jerry’s eyes, they were practically beaming. The necromancer himself was seated under a tree, back resting against its bark.

He didn’t remember much. There was pain, light, darkness. A brief awareness of his unconsciousness was the only concrete thing he remembered.

As the seconds passed, more memories returned. The assault on the hideout, the creeping revelation about necromancers, Jericho’s immortality and how it wasn’t really that, then there was nothing, only pain.

“What happened?” he finally asked, and Boney set to explaining.

They’d defeated Jericho, though the remaining bandits had escaped in the chaos. Oops. Hopefully, most of them would change their ways, seeking a peaceful, quiet life. Even if they didn’t, without Jericho’s protection, Milaris could deal with them. They would become a drop in the ocean of banditry.

Except for the Sworn, of course, but nobody would stand up to them anyway. Their motives for assisting Jericho were either profit, disrupting the kingdom’s peace, or both—in any case, nothing Jerry should get involved with.

Reymond had fallen during the battle, sacrificing himself to save Jerry. He could be reanimated, of course, but most of the captain’s personality would be wiped out, and it would be a long, long time before he could recover himself—if ever.

Axehand had also been heavily injured. He’d played the most important role in both segments of the battle, and he’d paid dearly for it. Now, the skeleton remained perfectly still, not daring to move a bone in fear of breaking apart. They had no idea how to heal him, but they thought Jerry might.

That was the first task he set to.

Standing up, Jerry took in the battle-ridden forest. The ground was riddled with holes caused by Jericho’s spearing roots, while arrows, weapons, and blood lay everywhere. The corpses—and other fleshy bits—had been moved next to a deep hole, their would-be tomb, waiting for Jerry’s inspection before getting buried. Maybe he’d want some.

“No,” he said calmly. “Bury them all.”

He could use the extra bodies, but he wasn’t in the mood. If Jerry knew how to do one thing, that was following his heart.

“Jerry.” Derek approached, with smiling eyes and larger strides than normal. He stopped a pace away from the necromancer. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“So am I, my friend.” Jerry smiled. “I have discovered I hate war.”

“Everyone does,” replied the hunter, “but few get to choose.”

“I guess so. Come. Let us save our injured friend first.”

Axehand’s large body lay still on the ground. Jerry crouched next to him, speaking a few soft words.

“You fought well, Axehand. I am proud of you.”

He could feel the double-skeleton’s emotions: a complicated ball of pride, joy, and warmth. Jerry rested a hand on Axehand, sending his energy inside. He could feel the damage. It scared him; Axehand had come a hair away from destruction.

He was fixable, of course. Jerry could replace the broken bones bit by bit, deconstructing and reconstructing the bonds in a modular enough fashion that it wouldn’t break down the entire network. The process would have to happen at a snail’s pace, taking days to complete, but the alternative meant de-animating Axehand, and that would be the same as killing him. Jerry refused to do that.

Fortunately, as he touched Axehand, Jerry realized his soul had expanded tremendously during the battle, and with that came a new ability.

He unhesitatingly pushed in his soul’s energy, bit by bit, watching as Axehand’s fractured, dislocated bones regrew and righted themselves. Derek averted his gaze at the squirming bones; it was a mesmerizingly repulsive sight, but one that Jerry didn’t mind. He never did, not when it came to the undead. Was it due to being a necromancer, or perhaps the opposite?

These questions kept coming to Jerry’s mind lately. Now that Jericho was gone, he had to look into this subject more carefully.

Axehand’s recovery wrung Jerry’s soul dry. He could feel it now; Axehand possessed monstrous power, and he carried a respectively great cost, both in repairing and maintaining him. Of his eleven current undead, Axehand himself required almost as much mental energy as all others combined.

The skeleton moved, slowly at first, then as normal. He stood, showering Jerry with a grateful gaze before falling to one knee. Jerry was startled. “What are you doing, Axehand?”

The skeleton’s eyes lit up with purple flames. Jerry’s eyes widened.

Purple?

It was the first time he saw this color in an undead, but somehow, he understood what it signified. Respect. Devotion. A proud warrior’s willing and total submission. Indeed, of his undead, the rest fought due to the circumstances. Only Axehand was a true warrior—though, at heart, he remained a lumberjack. The two weren’t that different.

The mental energy required to maintain Axehand dropped, reaching what felt like a minimum limit. Jerry smiled.

“You may rise, Axehand. In the future, if we need to fight, everyone will rely on you.”

The skeleton stood, nodding to Jerry before turning to the rest of the undead. From Foxy to Boney, all of them lowered their gazes in acknowledgment. It was respect borne of gratitude. Axehand could protect their master better than they could.

Not wanting to interrupt the gentle scene between his undead, Jerry walked off toward the place where Jericho had died but found nothing. There was a small semblance of a soul there, hiding deep in the soil, but reanimating it in any sort of body was a task far removed from Jerry’s current capabilities.

This is probably for the best. He was unpleasant, anyway.

Jerry then paced toward Reymond’s fallen body, Derek following by his side. They reached it, and Jerry sent his magic inside, intending to raise it.

Then, he paused. His eyes grew deeper, gentler, bittersweet. He turned to the Billies, who had already arrived.

Even though they weren’t blood-related in life, Jerry considered these eight to be brothers. Now, only four were left, with the others having fallen in the battle, unable to be raised again, as had once happened to Shorty.

“I will not raise Reymond,” he said slowly, watching their heads shake in surprise. They were zombies, making their emotions more vivid than the skeletons’. Jerry sighed inwardly. There was nothing he could do.

“He was a brave man, your captain,” he explained. “An open-minded, admirable man. Even when we fought side by side, I never realized how much he detested undead… I am sorry, Billies. He was able to accept you and me, but his soul is not willing to be raised. I truly am sorry.”

The zombies looked at him, then at each other. Half of them were gone, as was their captain. The Billy squad had been annihilated. Then, who were they?

“The Billy squad has run its course,” Jerry said, understanding their feelings, “but you are still the Billies. What do you say? Do you want to keep following me or join your captain in eternal rest?”

The four zombies looked at each other again. In truth, as newly raised zombies, their mental faculties were extremely limited. Their emotions were nothing but flashes of instinct somewhere deep down.

Together, the four bowed their heads to Jerry. They would follow him.

“So be it, then.” He smiled. “As for Reymond… Maybe this is for the best. He had long been looking to die in battle, to become a hero. His life was already over before he met you… Which was why he felt such guilt at your deaths. He wanted to die, but you didn’t. He shouldn’t have taken you along.”

The Billies looked up, unable to comprehend the depth of emotions Jerry described. All they knew was that their captain was satisfied, and, to them, that was enough.

“I never knew Reymond was such a deeply sad man…” Derek sighed. “He hid it well.”

“It wasn’t sadness,” Jerry said, looking at the sky. “His soul holds no words, but I can understand a few things. He used to have a very important person in his life, once upon a time, but failed to protect them. They died, and he was devastated, too old to build a new life. He had nothing to live for except his duties. For him, death was a release, one that I will not deprive him of.”

“Right.” Derek’s eyes were sad. “So much death… Sometimes, I wonder if there is something wrong with the world, or whether we could change anything.”

“We could,” Jerry replied, “and we should. People shouldn’t die needlessly. But, in the end, death is, and always will be, a part of life. It is simply a step some take sooner than others. There is nothing wrong about death, nor is it sad, except for those still living.”

Derek stood in silence, and Jerry waited until the hunter finally sighed.

“Your words sound true, my friend… but we living dearly miss the dead. You do not feel that, but you must not forget it either.”

Jerry blinked, then smiled. “I won’t.”

Jerry sat on a fallen log by himself, away from everyone else, pondering. Jericho’s words still rang clear in his mind.

“You are dead, necromancer, dead. You have been for a long time.”

Can it be true? he thought. Could I possibly be dead?

His mind flew back to his times in the forest, seeing everything under new light.

He could walk for as long as he wanted without getting tired. His sense of time was fuzzy, days and weeks passing in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, he wouldn’t sleep for three, four days in a row, too busy experimenting, and when he did sleep, it wasn’t by need, but mostly out of habit. He ate and drank like everyone but was rarely hungry or thirsty.

It wasn’t just the forest. Jerry thought back to his life, the fifteen years he’d spent suppressing his magic and living through hell.

Ever since he could remember, his emotions had always been muted compared to other people. He’d assumed it was natural, given his circumstances; had he been wrong?

Moreover, his body didn’t mind the frigid cold, and come to think of it, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an erection. All at once, Jerry realized he could use his magical perception to look inside himself. This thought had never occurred to him before. He did, and…

Would you look at that.

The bonds that normally tied body and soul were unique. They were deeply complex and complete beyond imagination, and they were as natural as life itself.

Inside Jerry, there were no such things. There was only a large, hovering soul, the largest he’d ever seen, shining with a soft black light. It was dark, and at the same time, warm, truly reflecting Jerry’s nature as a kind necromancer. From his soul, dark threads spread to every corner of his body, much more intricate than anything he could create but far simpler than the stark perfection living creatures were supposed to carry.

It was like a supreme necromancer had killed Jerry and reanimated him.

Could it be true? Are necromancers created by necromancers? Am I someone else’s undead?

He thought back to when he became a necromancer. He’d only been an eleven-year-old boy when he suddenly took a nap in the middle of the day. Waking up had startled him because he didn’t remember falling asleep. Soon after, he’d followed his instincts to reanimate a dead spider, and that was when his mother entered the room and started screaming. He didn’t practice necromancy again for fifteen years.

Was there someone else there that day? he wondered. Or was it a natural process? If it was a person, why would anyone choose to do this to a random child? And how powerful would they have to be?

The thought shook him, but striking and invasive as it was, he couldn’t see any way to advance in that direction. He didn’t have the knowledge to start unveiling that mystery yet.

Therefore, he simply stashed it away at the back of his mind until the time came. Right now, coming at peace with himself took precedence—something Jerry was very good at. He raised his head at the sky, taking in the endless, hopeful blue. So, I really died sixteen years ago… Who am I, then? Am I Jerry? Or someone else?

The thought was frightening.

“Hey.” A sound came from behind, and Jerry turned to find Derek standing there. “Are you okay?”

The hunter’s voice was filled with concern. He’d heard Jericho’s words, too—everyone had.

“I’m fine,” Jerry replied, sighing. “Just thinking.”

“It must be a shock.”

“In a way. But it’s not the end of the world either. I mean, I’m still the same person as yesterday or the day before that. Maybe I’m not who I thought I was, but… how much does it really matter?”

“I’m glad you’re taking this well.” Derek leaned against a tree, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Then again, if you thought about it too much, you wouldn’t be the Jerry I know.”

“It’s just interesting. My death was obvious in hindsight—there were so many signs—but it doesn’t really matter, does it? I mean… what’s changed?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, there is one thing.” Jerry’s eyes turned thoughtful. “I always thought I was the same as other people. I was a necromancer, sure, but at the end of the day, we were all humans. Now… Now, I don’t know. I am not like others, Derek. I’m different. Can I really live amongst humans as one of them when really, I’m not?”

Derek’s hard eyes filled with thoughts and care. “You know, Jerry, I believe you can—but not in Pilpen. That village is where hope goes to die. They are stubbornly close-minded… and, as I have said before, I do not believe they will ever accept you. Hell, they barely tolerate me despite spending a decade there.”

Jerry raised his head. “Then, what should I do?”

“Travel. If you really want a home, find or make a different one. You are young, Jerry, and strong, and the world is your playground. Don’t settle in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere. Live your life. Explore, wander, meet new people and places, taste everything life has to offer—and, when you grow gray, you’ll still have plenty of time to hole up in towers.”

Jerry met Derek’s eyes. “Do you think that’s best?”

“I do. Why did you want a home, in the first place?”

“Because I was lonely.”

“But you aren’t anymore, are you?”

Jerry smiled. “No. I have Boboar and Foxy, Boney, Headless, Axehand, Birb, and the Billies, too, at least the four that survived the battle. And I have you, my friend, and Ashman—though he acts weird lately—and Holly, who is slowly getting used to me.”

“The three of us belong to Pilpen,” replied the hunter, “but your undead do not. They are good companions, Jerry. I never thought I’d say this, but the undead… They are more humane than humans, sometimes. They can take care of you. You’ll never be alone.”

Jerry looked down, digesting those last words.

Never alone again…

“You’re a good man, Derek,” he said, but the hunter only smiled sadly.

“Maybe I used to be… but, as you died sixteen years ago, so did I when my wife passed. My spark is gone, Jerry. My world has reached a wall. I love my daughter more than anything, but having her means my life no longer belongs to me. I’m old. You are not. Your future is an empty canvas, an open sea where anything is possible. Leave Pilpen, Jerry, please. Live. The world is too large to stay where you’re not wanted.”

The necromancer looked up again, and as the two men crossed eyes, they saw deep into each other’s soul.

“I will,” Jerry replied. “I still have some things to do in Pilpen, but soon after we return, I will leave. We will wander. I have an idea, actually, but I’ll keep it a surprise for now.”

“Whatever you want, my friend.” Derek laughed. “I’m happy for you.”

“So, am I. And, Derek?”

“Yes, Jerry?”

“Thank you. For everything.”

Derek smiled back. “You’re welcome.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur. There were forty-two dead bandits, and they buried them all in one mass grave. Then, ten more holes were dug: five for the captain and each of the fallen Billies, and five for the back-up undead, who, despite their tragically short unlives, had done their best.

They stood over the graves for some time, then set out back toward Pilpen. The bandit hideout remained, a wooden network in the forest’s heart, there for people or nature to reclaim it.

Jerry, Derek, and the undead trudged through the forest until the moon had risen. They wanted to get as far away from the graveyard as possible. Eventually, Derek needed to sleep, so they stopped and set up camp. The undead didn’t need sleep, and neither did Jerry.

Three days later, they reached a spot near the village, where Derek waved them goodbye and headed back to his daughter—she was undoubtedly worried sick about him.

As for Jerry and his undead, they headed for the tower. Now that the bandits were no longer a problem, nobody would disturb them anymore. They could spend their final days in Pilpen at peace.

Or so they thought. Unfortunately, fate has its own workings, and the more vulnerable someone is, the more it loves to mess with them.

Jerry’s tower had been vandalized.

33

THE PRICE OF VANDALISM

The fence, arduously built over the winter, had been torn down in places. The wooden statue had been broken into two, lying on the hard ground, and Jerry’s shoemaking bench had been flipped. At least Shorty’s grave was undisturbed in the backyard, and the tower’s insides were seemingly safe, as the door remained closed.

Above said door, a grim message had been written in a dark red color.

‘YOU ARE NOT WELCOME. LEAVE, MONSTER.’

It resembled blood but was really just paint.

As soon as Jerry crested the last hill and laid eyes upon his tower, he froze. His gaze wandered over the fence, the statue, the message, and his heart was filled with great sadness. The culprit was obvious. Right before the tower stood a bunch of Pilpen villagers holding shovels, pitchforks, and a bucket of red paint.

They turned around as one and stared at Jerry, clearly terrified out of their minds at getting caught red-handed; both literally and metaphorically.

The undead saw everything a heartbeat later. Crimson flames lit up their eyes, and the hatred they radiated brought Jerry to his senses.

“Master,” Boney spoke icily, “I implore you. Please, let us massacre them. We will burn Pilpen to the ground.”

Jerry shook his head. Boney’s flames flickered. Clouds had covered the sun above, and rain was about to fall. Thunder boomed in the distance.

“You are too soft, Master!” Boney said in a harsh voice. “You graced them with your kindness, risked yourself and us to help them, and this is how they repay you. They absolutely must die. They deserve it.”

Axehand grunted in agreement.

Jerry could sense their emotions; all his undead were practically shivering with rage and indignation. To them, Jerry was the most important thing in the world, and he’d just been ostracized. They wanted nothing more than to run at the group and kill every man and woman they encountered.

Undead were fiercely loyal individuals.

Jerry, too, felt his usually serene heart shimmer with anger. These people had invaded and vandalized his home; what an intrusive, disrespectful action. They even destroyed the wooden statue his undead gifted him, which had taken days of work to complete. It was shocking, striking, and, in his eyes, completely out of the blue.

For the first time in a while, Jerry was truly angry, but though his heart boiled, he remained in control.

“Let’s see what they have to say,” he said.

Boney did not respond.

The undead procession marched toward the villagers, who quickly assembled themselves. At the very front stood Murdock, his red feather glinting in the afternoon sun, while behind him were two dozen villagers of Pilpen—the entire village, practically, save for the children. Even Ashman was there, holding his wife’s hand and gazing at Jerry in abject terror.

The undead stared at the villagers, and the entire disorderly bunch stared back. The villagers’ knuckles were white around the handles of their weapons—tools, rather—their lips were clenched, and their eyes were filled with a mixture of fear and resolve.

Murdock, however, had a gaze as sharp as a hawk’s, staring at Jerry with the full force of his misguided hatred as if he wasn’t the one caught vandalizing another’s property.

Despite the clearly armed group, Jerry did not feel particularly threatened—even in the off chance they for some reason attacked him, Axehand by himself was enough to make short work of any suicidal villagers. If anything, they should be the scared ones.

The undead procession stopped twenty paces away.

“What is the meaning of this?” Jerry asked.

“The meaning, necromancer,” Murdock replied, his voice full of derision, “is that we want you gone.”

The villagers shrank back, all of them displaying an urge to hide, Ashman included.

Jerry frowned. “Did you need to paint slurs on my walls to say that?”

Murdock ignored the question, too arrogant to plead guilty. “On the orders of Pilpen’s mayor,” he said, glancing back at Ashman, who seemed content to remain hidden in the crowd, “we have to ask you to leave.”

Jerry’s frown deepened.

“Master—” Boney tried to speak but was interrupted.

“Why did you do this?” Jerry asked calmly, staring at the villagers’ faces. Some dodged his gaze, while others drew courage from Murdock’s presence and glared. Many looked away in shame. “I have been nothing but good to you. I saved Holly, I protected you from the bandit attack, now, I also got rid of Jericho the Green and his Greenskin bandits, securing peace and safety for Pilpen. I was even going to make shoes for all of you…”

Jerry looked at them again, and this time, his eyes were earnest, and his heart was heavy. He continued, “Let alone doing something so ugly, why would you even want to send me away? Are you stupid?”

Murdock was unimpressed. “Because you are a necromancer. You bring only death and misery to our land, and even having you nearby makes us unable to sleep. We do not care if you say you’re good, or even if you truly are; we do not want you here, Jerry necromancer. Letting you in was a mistake. You have to go.”

Jerry crossed gazes with the older wizard. He seemed resolute. These villagers wouldn’t come all the way out here if they weren’t.

As for Jerry himself… He was angry, of course, though more than that, disappointed. Empty. So much effort and time had been in vain. The world seemed meaningless.

“So, you want me gone?” he asked again. He looked at Ashman, suddenly glad that Holly was missing from this assembly. She was old enough to be considered an adult. “Even you, Ashman? I thought we were friends. You’ve drunk and slept at the place you violated.”

The pretend-mayor clenched his teeth. “It had to be done. We… Pilpen cannot coexist with a necromancer.”

“But why?”

“Because we’re terrified.”

And that was true. Jerry was shaken. He knew people were afraid of him, of course, he’d always known—but that’s exactly why he did his best to be friendly and approachable. Why he protected them. Why he would help them with anything they needed, and why he’d made it clear on every opportunity that he was not an evil necromancer. He even got rid of their bandit problem, though he didn’t do it for them.

At the end of the day, Pilpen was the only village that accepted him; everyone else had instantly kicked him away.

Despite that, despite spending four months together—at least, in close vicinity—they still couldn’t get over the simple fact that he was a necromancer? That simple, understandable, yet ridiculous prejudice? Despite his best intentions, they had to vandalize his home, and weren’t even the slightest bit remorseful afterward? What kind of joke was that?

Jerry felt a bitter, burning pit in his chest.

This is unfair. I did my best, and yet these people refuse to treat me as a person. They prefer to treat me like shit. Why?

His temper flared.

Fuck it. Fuck all of you.

“Is that so?” he said, anger building up as his tongue dripped venom. “Fuck you and your fake friendship, Ashman. I pity your weakness. And you, Murdock, you’re such a pathetic little human being. I have not mistreated you once despite your repeated provocations, and yet you can’t even sleep when I’m anywhere nearby. Is that so?”

“Precisely.” The wizard glared back, heedless of the crimson-eyed undead lusting to tear him apart. He was convinced that Jerry wouldn’t attack them unless provoked, and he was right.

But Jerry had other ways to fight back. “You are a lying bag of shit,” he said. “You can’t sleep with me around, sure—but maybe, if the cheating bitch you call a lover ever slept by your side, you would manage?”

The revelation fell like an anvil. Murdock froze. Melissa froze, and she reflexively clenched Ashman’s hand so hard it probably hurt. He looked at her with wide eyes. The villagers glanced at each other in puzzlement.

“You—” Murdock struggled to speak, feigning confusion. “What the hell are you talking about? I like men.”

“Sure you do. You know, once upon a time, I noticed that Melissa was a great man of the house. Is that why you’re so fixated on her?”

Whispers erupted instantly. “What?” Melissa acted surprised. “I’m married to Ashman! We have no idea what he’s talking about. Right, honey?” She turned to him, but his eyes were hollow and wide like saucers. It didn’t matter how well she faked it; he knew her too well. In Ashman’s heart, at that moment, all the pieces fell together. He finally saw the image he’d been struggling to avoid. His hard-fought love crumbled.

He died inside.

Murdock shouted out, “What nonsense is this? Are you so bitter that you’re spouting bullshit? Are you this pathetic?”

“You would know pathetic, wouldn’t you? You left your life in the city and settled in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere, for a woman who would never put you before her husband. Tell me, Murdock, how does it feel to have your loved one ignore your sacrifices and sleep with another man every night?”

“Shut up! Shut up! You—Shut the fuck up!”

Murdock was shocked and furious. With every word that left Jerry’s mouth, the older wizard’s façade cracked even more—these truths cut him deeply. By the time Jerry was done, Murdock was beyond himself with rage, and the villagers, who were beginning to catch on, had taken a few steps away from Ashman and Melissa.

She was speaking sweet words, proclaiming her love to Ashman, but he knew the truth now. He knew her, and he knew she was lying by the way she looked to the side, by how her fists were clenched, by how her dark hair jumped over her eyes as she gestured animatedly…

He truly did love her. Unable to blind himself any longer, Ashman’s eyes were filled with tears, and his rotund face scrunched up in an expression of utter bitterness, and his jaw trembled as he raised a hand and slapped Melissa to the ground.

Murdock turned around.

“STOP THAT!” he shouted, embers lighting up his fingers under a dark sky. “LEAVE HER ALONE!”

Ashman stared back, unafraid of death, because what did he have to lose?

And Jerry stepped forth, arriving within five steps of Murdock, saying, “Use your magic, Murdock, and it will be the last thing you ever do.”

Murdock’s gaze was filled with hatred. Even the villagers looked at him appalled now, and nobody moved to help Melissa, who was holding her cheek in shock—adultery was forbidden in Manna’s worship.

“You!” Murdock’s eyes glared at Jerry. “It’s all your fault! You sick, abominable, dead thing!”

“No, Murdock, it’s your fault. The one who ruined your life… is you.”

The wizard’s features stilled on his face before contorting into a caricature of hatred. In a few moments, his life had crumbled. How could he not lose himself?

“DIE!” he screamed, raising his burning hands at Jerry. A howling stream of fire shot out, rapidly crossing the air⁠—

—and meeting Axehand’s thick, inflammable bone chest. The fire slammed against him ineffectively, spreading itself over the soil below.

Before Murdock could prepare another bolt, Jerry raised his own hand, and magic darker than black unleashed itself on the older wizard.

A cold iron vise appeared inside Murdock’s body and grabbed his soul, making it squirm uselessly in Jerry’s grasp. Murdock gasped, all color leaving his face. He saw death, then, and it possessed the form of a good-natured, friendly, yet decisive necromancer. The kind he never should have angered.

“You brought this upon yourself, Murdock…” Jerry sighed wearily while everyone watched in horror. “You tried to kill me before, humiliate me, and you even got everyone to vandalize my home due to your own misplaced arrogance… And again, you try to kill me. I am a good man, Murdock, but I am not a coward. Enough is enough. Begone.”

Murdock squealed, trying to say something, but never got the chance. Jerry’s grip tightened around his soul, drowning it. Those beautiful, incredibly complex, irreplaceable bonds tying Murdock’s soul to his body… In one forceful grasp, Jerry tore them all apart, letting them fizzle into nothingness.

Murdock’s lifeless body slumped to the ground. The villagers gawked like deer in the torchlight. Melissa screamed.

Jerry raised his head, directing his angry stare at them⁠—

And saw a bunch of weak, frightened, ignorant villagers. They reminded him of mice before a ravenous cat. Of witless children. Their terrified gazes met his, but in all their stupidity, they weren’t acting against him out of spite, as Murdock had been. They were just flailing around life while terrified out of their minds, acting as their instincts indicated. They were little more than animals.

How could he blame such small people?

His fury lost steam.

Besides, no matter how angry he was right now, what was he supposed to do? Massacre everyone? No, Jerry couldn’t do that. His tower’s current state hurt, yes, but he refused to ruin himself.

In the end, they were just ignorant, hateful fools, and the damage to his tower had been minimal. Only the wooden statue couldn’t be easily repaired, which sucked, though Axehand’s sculpting skills were getting sharper by the day; he could make a new statue, far better than the previous one.

Jerry’s anger deflated completely. The darkness receded from his mind, leaving behind only weariness and bitter disappointment—both at them, for being such small-minded individuals, and at himself, for trying to reason with imbeciles who couldn’t see further than their noses.

And people call me mentally challenged…

He could see it now.

Why did I ignore their prejudice and ugly stares? Why was I willing to lower myself to appease them as if I needed forgiveness? They are the ones at fault for not understanding. After I couldn’t get through to them the first time, I was a fool to keep trying. But not anymore.

Jerry had done his best to fit in, but the people of Pilpen were too small and scared to see past his identity as a necromancer. There was nothing more he could—or should—do.

He could always find another home—why become so fixated on this particular one? Derek’s words made perfect sense now.

The realization washed over Jerry like a bucket of ice-cold, refreshing water, and suddenly, the knot in his heart was untied. His relief was gigantic. He no longer cared about the villagers’ approval because, at the end of the day, the world was unbelievably large. If these people were too small, he could let them stew in their own hatred and just go find something better.

A place that would accept him. A place to truly belong.

The rain never came. The sun peeked from behind the clouds, showering Jerry with warmth. All of a sudden, the future was bright and filled with possibilities. Jerry had seen the light; and all at once, everything felt right.

His gaze mellowed on the villagers, finding them lacking but too small to be taken seriously. They were merely naive, foolish, and struggling to survive in a world more complex than they could understand.

Jerry sighed again.

“You should all be ashamed of yourselves,” he said. “This sort of behavior is ridiculous; childish, at best. You are an embarrassment to your parents and children; nothing but pitiful, pathetic little humans. Next time, don’t let the first silver-tongued asshole you meet talk you into suicidal stupidity—and, for the love of Desistos, or Manna, or whatever God you believe in, choose a mayor who can actually say no.”

They stared at him mutedly.

“Return to your village, all of you. And you two, Ashman and Melissa… I don’t care what you do. Just go, and take Murdock’s body as well. I don’t need it. By tomorrow morning, Pilpen will never see me again.”

They did not move. Jerry frowned, letting a hint of black aura appear around him.

“Leave my land,” he commanded, and this time, the villagers bolted away at such speed that many dropped their pitchforks and shovels. Ashman and Melissa were both still in a state of shock, but one glare from Jerry was all it took for the them to disappear. In their moment of hesitation, Boney grabbed the bucket of red paint and poured it over their heads, drenching them completely.

When the villagers of Pilpen went away, dragging Murdock’s corpse with them, only Jerry and his undead were left, staring at the tower which had housed them for one warm winter. Right now, it wasn’t pretty—but, in their eyes, it remained the world’s most beautiful tower.

Nostalgia clouded Jerry’s gaze, but he knew better. As his father used to say, letting go…

“Master,” Boney’s voice came from the side, hesitant and respectful, “is this really it?”

“It is, Boney. All of you felt what I felt—this place was too small for us. Starting tomorrow, our home will be the vast, wide world, with all its wonders and colors. I already have a great idea, actually, but I’ll tell you later.”

The undead gathered around their master, their father, gazing at him with concern.

“We go then, Master?” asked Boney.

“Yes, Boney,” Jerry replied, smiling. “We go.”

34

THE PERFECT PLAN

“Jerry!” Soon after the villages disappeared, a shout came from the hill’s base as a rugged figure burst out of the tree line. It was Derek, panting as if he’d run all the way here, and still wearing the same bloodied clothes as from before. He’d come from a different direction than the villagers; they had taken the long, clear way around, while he cut straight through the woods.

“Derek,” Jerry replied softly, walking to meet him midway. The undead stayed behind, letting the two men chat by themselves.

A string of curses escaped Derek’s mouth before he could even catch his breath. He was furious, far more than Jerry had ever seen him, except when Brad mistreated Holly.

“Where are they? Those pitiful, pig-born bastards! How dare they do this to you? How dare they take your kindness and throw it in the trash!”

“It’s fine, Derek.”

“No, it isn’t!” the hunter shouted again, looking at the slur on the wall, then sighed deeply. “I’m sorry, Jerry… I had no idea they would do this.”

“I’m telling you, it’s fine.” Jerry smiled. “What’s done is done. You were right; I really should leave this place, and as soon as possible, too.”

“But they⁠—”

“You didn’t run into them, did you?”

Derek blinked. “No.”

“Well, some things happened, and I killed Murdock.”

“Oh.” He stayed silent for a moment. “I never liked that bastard, anyway.”

“There’s another thing, too,” Jerry continued with a smirk. “I told everyone that Murdock and Melissa had been having an affair.”

“They’ve what!”

“Having an affair. Fucking. You know, Murdock was sticking his⁠—”

“I know what it means, but what?” Derek’s eyes were wide as saucers. “Is it true?”

“Absolutely, my friend. I saw them with my own two eyes—well, not quite, but kind of. Murdock even lied that Ashman was sterile to drive them apart, but it wasn’t him, it was Melissa all along. I never said anything because Ashman didn’t want to know, but now… Well, I wanted to get back at them. If they betray me, why should I carry their burden?”

Derek was speechless.

“Well fucking done!” he exclaimed. “They deserved that! But still, I can’t believe Melissa… That wench had been taking care of my daughter! Murdock and Melissa had been teaching her herbalism. I… Fuck them both!”

“They already did it themselves.” Jerry laughed.

“This is no laughing matter, Jerry! What kind of values have they been teaching her?” Derek clenched his fists, angry again. “That’s it; fuck it, fuck it all, and fuck them, too. I’m not staying with those fuckers any longer. I’m taking Holly and going to Milaris right now.”

“Yeah, I’m leaving tomorrow too… If I had any last doubts, they’re all gone. I didn’t need a home, but a family. And now”—he looked back at the tower, where the undead simply stood in silence—“I have one. You were right, Derek. The world is too large to stay where you’re not wanted.”

“I only wish someone had told me that when I was younger…” the hunter grumbled. “So, what are you going to do? Will you come to Milaris with us?”

Jerry shook his head. He leaned back, releasing a light breath as he looked at the sky. It was still afternoon, and the sunset’s rosy color was just starting to color the horizon. The sky, the forest, the mountains, the birds flying above, his beloved undead behind him, and a good friend in front.

Being unwanted hurt, but learning to deal with it was a critical part of life. Nobody belongs everywhere.

Jerry’s heart was light again. The remaining anger and pain washed away—not completely, of course, but to a large degree, and the rest would disappear with time. The future suddenly occupied his thoughts. The vast, promising world, and all its endlessly intriguing possibilities.

And as a matter of fact, Jerry already had an inkling of what he wanted to do.

“Not Milaris, my friend…” he replied. “Necromancers are not welcome in the Three Kingdoms, that much is clear—and they never will be while the Dead Lands remain.”

“Oh? And what are you going to do about that? Destroy the Dead Lands?”

“No, even better. I will lift the Curse.”

“What?” Derek’s eyes widened. “But that’s⁠—”

“I know. For fifty entire years, after the Curse escaped Ozborne’s control, the northern half of the continent has been an undead wasteland. If fixing that was easy, someone would have done it already. In fact, let alone fixing it, nobody even dares to enter the Dead Lands.”

“Exactly!”

“But you see”—Jerry smiled widely—“I recently discovered I’m undead myself. The Curse can’t touch me. I’m the perfect person for the job.”

“That’s—Well, yes, I guess, but what do you know about curses?”

“Nothing yet, but I’ll find a way when I get there. Lifting the Curse will be the first step to necromancers being accepted. Nobody will have to endure what I did. We will be free.”

Derek gave him a deep stare. “Don’t make the same mistake you did in Pilpen, Jerry. Most people are too stupid to be open-minded.”

“I know. I don’t expect necromancy to be welcomed all of a sudden. It will be a long, difficult journey towards coexistence. All I want is to do my part.”

The hunter processed this, gazing at Jerry’s smile, and then he laughed out loud, the kind of laughter that comes from one’s heart.

“You’re insane, Jerry, totally batshit crazy—but damn, do I like you! You know what? I think that’s a perfect goal! If I didn’t have a daughter, I might have even joined you!”

Jerry smiled again. He’d felt lost a moment ago, but now, he had purpose. He had a goal, a dream. He would adventure to the Dead Lands, find some way to lift the Curse, and right the wrongs that necromancers had done or die trying. And, most importantly, he’d make sure to have a lot of fun on the way.

“However, let alone solving the Curse,” Derek said after he’d calmed down a bit, “how are you even going to get there? The Damn Wall is tightly guarded, and no one is allowed past.”

“No idea; I’ll just play it by ear. As for getting to the Wall itself, I do have something fun in mind. A way to complete the journey in style, have fun, and make some money at the same time—maybe I’ll need it.” Jerry leaned closer. “This will sound weird, but it’s a great idea, trust me.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“I’ll start a wandering circus.”

“A what?” Derek’s eyes bulged out, surprise overcoming his previous anger.

“A wandering circus.” Jerry laughed; a carefree, pleasant peal. After all, why not? The undead were considered odd to begin with; why not capitalize on that?

“What do you think, my friend? Isn’t it awesome?”

“A wandering circus… A circus?”

“Yep.” Jerry smiled. “And I think we’re all going to have a wonderful time. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea.”

“But…” Derek still couldn’t believe it. Compared to their previous discussion, this was just too disorienting. “A wandering circus?”

“You sure like repeating things, my friend. Are you a parrot?” Jerry laughed again as he paced around, a new spring in his step. The sky was bright, the sun was shining, and the air was clean. The birds chirped as they flew overhead, and the first flowers had already bloomed, filling Jerry’s nose with their fragrance. The vandalized tower was nothing but a dissonant splash of color in a beautiful world, already part of the background.

“What do you think, Derek? How about we travel together to Milaris? It’s on my way, and I need some equipment to truly get the circus started.”

“Uh… Sure.”

“Great!” Jerry beamed. “Go on, then. Bring your daughter and baggage; we leave at dawn.”

Derek stared in disbelief.

“Come on, Derek! The circus won’t build itself. I can already see it: Axehand will be our strongman, the Billies will be acrobats, Headless will be the juggler, and Boboar with Foxy will take care of the animal routines. As for Boney, he will help me manage everything, while Birb… Well, Birb will do Birb things. How beautiful, it’s as if everything was leading up to this very moment. Why are you still here? Go on, Derek; your daughter won’t fetch herself!”

Giggling and rubbing his hands, Jerry took off toward his undead. As for Derek, he still stood there, eyes bulging in disbelief.

“But… a wandering circus?”

Jerry laughed from afar. And just like that, on the next day, a wandering circus which would soon become known far and wide set off, never to visit this little place again. It was called the Funny Bone.

They were off to new, wonderful adventures.

A weird scene was unraveling outside Milaris. In a field behind a forest, hidden from the city’s sight, undead congregated around a small collection of living. They had a wagon filled with fabrics, musical instruments, and all sorts of trinkets, and their eyes were filled with warmth—even for those who didn’t have eyes.

“This is great, Derek,” Jerry said, looking at the cart. “Thank you.”

“Only a day’s work,” the hunter replied proudly. Undead could not enter Milaris, so Derek and Holly had gone shopping for everything the circus needed to get started, courtesy of Jericho’s money coffers. They’d done a splendid job.

While the two were shopping, Jerry and his undead waited hidden in the forest. Derek and Holly had had enough of being outcasts. They should not be seen with undead. Of course, this didn’t mean they were ashamed of their friends. It was just best for them, and everyone understood. Jerry, in fact, insisted.

“And so, here we are,” the necromancer said, his eyes sparkling. “You’re about to start a new life in a new place where no one knows you and you know no one.” He shook his head. “The future is full of possibilities, isn’t it?”

“So is yours, my friend.” Derek smiled. “Who knows where your adventures will take you. If you ever pass by Milaris again, come visit. I look forward to hearing the rest of your story.”

“I will.” Jerry smiled back, then released a sigh. “None of this would have happened without you, Derek… From the bottom of my heart, thank you. In my entire life, as long as I can remember, you’re the first living friend I ever had.”

“I should be the one thanking you. You saved me from the cesspool that is Pilpen and helped me get revenge. I owe you one.”

The two men looked at each other and nodded with faint smiles.

“Mr. Jerry,” Holly spoke hesitantly, taking a step forward. “Thank you… both for saving me that one time and for helping my father. I’m sorry for being afraid of you before…”

“That’s okay. Everyone would be scared. What matters is that you got over it, and that you’ve got a terrific dad who loves you very much.”

She looked up at him with her wide green eyes and nodded. “Thank you.”

“On behalf of the undead,” Boney said, “we will miss you both. It was fun. Let’s meet again sometime.”

“No bone pun, Boney?” Jerry asked, raising a brow.

“I tried really hard, Master, but couldn’t come up with anything.”

“That’s okay.” Derek laughed. “If you rediscover your funny bone, let us know.”

Everyone looked at him in surprise, then shared a hearty laugh.

“Well, we should get going,” Jerry said, looking at the midday sun. “The first village is still some hours away.”

“Don’t let us keep you,” Derek said, extending a hand. “It was my honor to meet you all. Until we meet again, I pray you live wonderful unlives.”

“I hope you find everything you wish for, Derek.”

Jerry ignored Derek’s outstretched hand and pulled him into a hug. Boney joined them, pulling Holly along, and soon, all the undead gathered around in a massive group hug, with the zombies at the very back. Foxy climbed and walked on their shoulders to snuggle up to Derek, while Birb perched atop Holly’s head. She giggled, a few tears already glistening in her eyes.

“Well, that’s it, everyone,” Jerry said as they dispersed. He climbed on the cart. “I wish you the best of luck, though you don’t need it.” He winked. “Goodbye!”

“Goodbye, Jerry! Goodbye, undead!” Derek and Holly stood there and waved. The wagon started rolling, pulled by Boboar. The undead were already jesting with each other and trying out musical instruments, while Jerry lounged on his heavenly soft chair—which sat at the very top of the cart—and took a quick nap. The future was already filling his head.

He would miss Derek and Holly, but he knew by now: life was the art of letting go.

Derek and Holly stood there until the circus disappeared in the horizon, and only then did they speak again.

“They’re good people, Dad,” Holly said.

“Yeah. I hope they have a blast… Oh, to be young. Now, come on. Let’s build a life we’re proud of, and when you grow up a bit, maybe you’ll adventure, too.”

“Yes!”

They returned to Milaris, where they’d make their home for the next few years. The circus had gone away, too.

And everyone lived happily ever after, until they didn’t.

Magic rippled in the silent forest.

The animals freaked out and ran away; the trees shuddered; the wind blew. Darkness coalesced on the forest ground thickly, like slime, before the soil glowed black. It rose, and at the same time, transformed, becoming a naked man with bronze skin, wild hair, black eyes, and hands as large as shovels.

Jericho’s eyes opened in confusion.

“Hmm? I’m alive?” he asked, trying to stand.

“You are not.”

A person was crouched on the ground beside Jericho. One of his hands touched the soil next to his feet, still ebbing black light.

This was a clean-shaven man in his thirties, with dark hair and a long, thin scar running horizontally over his entire forehead. Below the scar, his blue eyes were framed by strict lines yet were piercing like the pointiest of daggers. He wore a dark, tight leather jacket over a white silken shirt, and as he stood, the two black feathers sticking out of his chest pocket took Jericho aback.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked, but a burning pain in his soul instantly made him fall to his knees.

“Your new master,” the man replied in a crisp voice, “so be polite.”

“A necromancer…” Jericho grunted. “Fuck off! I have no master!”

“That is not your choice to make.” The man raised a hand, sending a new jolt of pain through Jericho. “You are already one of mine. I prefer letting my undead keep their minds, so try to accept it.”

The earth spirit roared. “You fucker, I’ll—” He froze mid-sentence. He remembered. He’d been crushed. His bandit gang was destroyed, his brother tree murdered, and even he, for all his endless power, had been defeated.

Hatred flared inside Jericho as he thought of the man who took everything away from him. Jerry Shoeson…

He had lost everything, but he could start anew. He was back. As long as his mother was with him, there was nothing Jericho couldn’t do. He reached for the familiar link inside him, connecting him to the earth, or at least he tried to.

“Mother!” he yelled in panic; terror consumed him. “Where’s my mother!”

Jerry had even stolen his mother! Jericho had lost his powers! He was now weak and alone, and he could never take revenge. He’d lost everything. The world spun around Jericho as he stumbled.

“Gaia does not take in undead,” the necromancer said. “She has abandoned you. It was I who revived you, saved you from the endless void of death. My name is Maccain Darkson, a Herald of the Wizard Order, and I will grant you new life.”

Jericho’s thoughts spun, only half-listening. However, he did hear one word, and it was enough to shake him. “Herald?” he asked, eyes opening wide. “Really?”

“Is my strength not proof enough?”

A shadow fell on Jericho from behind, and as he turned to look, he found a one-eyed ogre staring him down. Jericho himself towered over normal men, but this creature was easily a head taller than him, and the club it wielded was a normal person’s height.

“I know you!” Jericho exclaimed, taking a step back. “Borgon the Crusher!”

The ogre smiled, revealing a line of flat, bulky teeth. Behind him stood another man, slim and holding two swords—he was also a zombie, as evidenced by the deep wound on his chest. Suddenly, a flash came in the moonlight, and the grass below seemed to lose its luster as droplets from all around formed a humanoid shape in midair, barely as large as Jericho’s palm.

Jericho was surrounded by four beings: the necromancer and, presumably, his other three undead. The sword-wielder zombie released a grunt. It trembled and fell to its knees. Jericho watched in confusion as, with a final hateful glance at its master, the zombie collapsed. Its swords fell to the grass.

Jericho blinked. “What the hell was that?”

“The fate of those who disappoint me. I believe in quality over quantity; three of you are enough until I find someone stronger.”

Jericho felt lost. He glanced at the other two undead; the ogre grinned, while the water spirit’s eyes were unable to discern.

Jericho did understand one thing: his fate was no longer in his hands. He’d lost everything and been reborn as a tool.

He did not want that. The absence of his mother ached like a burning pike through his ribs. He was trapped, and an intense urge to inflict violence flared within him. His eyes widened in rage. He clenched his fists, turning around to⁠—

His soul burned again. All power left Jericho’s limbs as he dropped to a knee, unwillingly bowing to the man who claimed to be his master. Jericho did not want to be a slave. He realized he hated this man from the deepest core of his being, and his soul fought back with the madness of a cornered animal, but it was not strong enough. Magic grabbed his soul like an iron fist and squeezed it, forcing him into obedience. All thoughts of resistance were forcibly dispersed as part of Jericho’s mind was locked away.

His soul was overwhelmed; the fighting subdued. He had lost.

Jericho lowered his head toward the necromancer. His hatred for the man was vanishing; Jericho knew that, in a few seconds, he would do anything for the man he so very hated. No—the moment he became a slave, Jericho realized he hated himself the most, and an animalistic, desperate cry echoed from his throat into the forest—a final act of resistance before any such thoughts were extinguished, leaving only deep hatred with an unknown source.

Maccain smiled. “Tell me, my newest slave… Who killed you?”

In the deep, bitter pit of his self-hatred, Jericho grasped onto the chance to vent his impotent frustration. His lips twitched with pleasure.

“A necromancer, Master. A man called Jerry Shoeson.”

35

THE GREAT ENIGMA

Manna, Desistos, Gaia, Pyros, and Hydra.

The five Primordials ruled over our world for millennia, each a nature spirit representing the apex of a branch of magic. They were immortal, invincible tyrants with no consideration for human life. To them, we were little more than toys. To us, they were gods.

Until six hundred years ago, when they disappeared.

Nobody knows what happened. Anything involving the disappearance or death of the Primordials should have been recorded with the greatest of details—and yet, no matter how we search, we can find no concrete mentions of that event.

However, we know that the Primordials did not go silent into the night. Before their disappearance, the Sea of Sands was not a desert, but a lush continent, and sporadic, fragmented records speak of a battle so large as to threaten breaking the world. These are all the clues we have.

It is like the entire world’s history of that time period was wiped clean.

What happened to the five Primordials? Did they kill each other? Are they alive, and if so, where? Are they dead, and if so, where are their corpses? Beings of such power do not just disappear. The only suspect location is the Throat of the Earth in the Sea of Sands, that bottomless lake, but despite the world’s best efforts, despite diving countless miles, no sign of a bottom has been reached.

What happened to the five Primordials, and why is it not recorded? How did the Sea of Sands come to be? How and why were the entire world’s historical records erased? What unimaginable power could have caused this?

Even six hundred years later, we have no answers, and these questions are collectively referred to as the Great Enigma. I wish they are solved in my lifetime, for I die to know.

- From the introductory chapter of The Great Enigma by Arabon the Mindful

“Mmm, hmm, hmm. Oh, another one. Yay!”

Maria pocketed the mushroom she’d been holding, smiling as she stood back up. She then skipped to the next tree and got ready to collect its mushrooms, too. Maybe, if she showed all these to her mom, she’d cook a nice soup!

Spring had come a month ago, and all of nature had been blooming ever since. Maria’s days were filled with beautiful flowers and fluffy calves and cute puppies and the scent of vanilla as her mother extracted the juices. This is great! Maria thought and smiled.

Suddenly, she paused, hand still reaching for a mushroom. A series of odd sounds reached her ears—honking and bashing, banging and whistling, blowing and trumpets and huffing and puffing and all the nice loud sounds that she knew well.

These were travelers! Musicians!

Maria forgot all about mushrooms and excitedly ran through the woods to the road, the wide dirt path from where the sounds came. She reached it in a few minutes, stuck her little face through a bush, and saw⁠—

Well, she wasn’t sure what she saw.

There were trumpets and carried drums, there were packs of colorful fabrics forming a tower on a slow wagon. Jugglers and dancers and musicians were interspersed with animals parading under shiny colors, but these weren’t normal people, for some of them were made of bones.

Four tall men danced ahead of everyone, surrounding another who was somehow juggling his own head. A bone-man, this one large and terrifying, was carrying two massive drums and playing both at the same time—not too exquisitely. And did he have axes for hands?

A fox with ribbons flying over its bony body walked beside him, yelping, jumping, and rolling on the ground, while a large bone-boar with little bells on its tusks pulled the wagon and joyfully shuffled its feet in an awkward attempt at dancing.

On the cart sat a bone-man with a colorful pointy hat, absorbed in the sheets of paper he was holding and not at all participating in the festivities, save for the small, red, rolled-up, pipe-like thing on his lips. When he blew it, as he reluctantly did every few seconds, the thing unrolled and made a funny-sounding whistling-spitting noise, a sort of ‘prrrt.’

Driving the cart was another funny-looking man in a long, multicolored robe with a trumpet on his lips, an instrument he clearly didn’t know how to play, but he was trying. He noticed Maria, waved, and said, “Hi! We’re the Funny Bone Circus! Awesome, right?”

Maria released a pointy shriek and fainted.

John, Harry, and Dick stood with their arms crossed in front of the village gates, all three of them wearing a necklace of wood nettle.

“A circus, you say,” spoke John.

“Exactly, my good sirs.” The necromancer smiled widely. With his extravagantly colorful robe, the stuffed sack he was holding, and the pointy party hat on his head, he really didn’t look half-evil. “We are the Funny Bone, the new wandering circus of Escarbot. Could we have the honor of performing in your village?”

“Why would a necromancer start a circus?” Harry asked, narrowing his eyes.

“I have to make a living somehow, and shoes don’t sell well in the spring.”

“What do shoes⁠—”

“As a token of our gratitude,” the necromancer continued—Jerry was his name—“we’ve prepared some gifts for you.”

Removing the sack from his shoulder, he opened it on the ground and took out handful after handful of little wooden horses.

“What are those?” Dick asked.

“Toys, my friends! As a circus, our purpose is to bring smiles on the lips of children and grown-ups alike. How could we possibly show up without a few toys?”

“Are these for free?” John asked, picking up a wooden horse and turning it around. He had to admit it was well-crafted; he could even tell apart the individual hairs on its tail!

My little John Jr. would love this… he thought of his modestly named son.

“Of course they are, my good sirs. We seek only to bring happiness; why would we shy away from a few gifts?”

“But you’ll charge for your performance.”

“Of course.” The necromancer gave them a wide, good-natured smile. “We have to make a living, don’t we?”

John, Harry, and Dick exchanged a look. “He did bring wooden horses,” John said. “Nice ones, too.”

“And he seems friendly,” Harry added.

“I don’t want to spoil the fun,” Dick said, pointing behind the necromancer, “but have you noticed the hellish army over there?”

A bunch of undead stood behind Jerry—dressed so ridiculously, they couldn’t scare a cat, but deadly nonetheless.

“Come on, Dick, don’t be a dick.” John scoffed. “He even brought us gifts. What more do you expect him to do, blow you?”

“That’s right, that’s right, he brought wooden horses. Doesn’t get more harmless than that. They can’t even neigh.”

“Your children will even be able to host mock races,” the necromancer cut in. “I bet these can keep them occupied till the summer.”

Occupied? The eyes of John and Harry, who had children, shone. They wanted nothing more than to get those little disasters out of their feet.

“See?” Harry looked at Dick. “Totally harmless.”

“Harmless, besides being a necromancer.” Dick crossed his arms.

“Come on, Dick. This guy is clearly doing his best. No one evil would dress like that.”

“No offense, sir,” John quickly intervened.

“None taken. That was more of a compliment.” The necromancer smiled.

“Hmph.” Dick considered it, once again looking over the necromancer and his group of undead. “You’re right, I guess… but no funny business, you hear me?”

“We intend to do lots of funny business, sir,” the wizard replied in all seriousness, “but none of it suspicious, if that’s what you mean.”

“Look, Dick, he’s even funny by himself; imagine what he can do with a whole circus.”

“Just camp outside the village.” Dick, the most reluctant of the three, sighed. “We’ll keep the goats away from you—we know the undead fear them. Just give us a great show, okay?”

“Of course!” The necromancer smiled again. That the undead feared goats was another baseless prejudice he didn’t care to correct. “Thank you for understanding, my good friends. Now, there are a few details to be discussed. Boney?”

A skeleton emerged from the bunch and approached them, somehow managing to make his skull seem ready for business. In his bony hands was a sheet of paper, and on his lips, a red, rolled-up, pipe-like thing which could unroll and make a funny-sounding ‘prrrt.’

“The name’s Tom Boney,” the skeleton said, entering business mode, “and I have a few things to discuss with you. For starters, we plan to host three shows in your village, with the price of admission at three taels a head—two for the children. Equivalent exchanges will be accepted at our discretion. Moreover, we would like your village to provide us with materials at a premium price to facilitate our performances. Specifically, we need pig fat, strong rope, colored fabrics…”

Boney kept speaking. The three men never knew what hit them.

36

THE FUNNY BONE CIRCUS

“Come, everyone, come! Watch the Funny Bone, the one and only undead circus of the Three Kingdoms!”

Jerry stood on a crate and called out to the crowd, inviting them all to the performance. This random village they’d chanced upon was a medium-sized one, housing at least a hundred people, which meant decent potential profit.

Jerry liked profit. Over the last month, he’d come to understand the power of bribes and came to understand that profit could convert to larger bribes, so more freedom for him and his undead. Moreover, if they wanted to get past the Damn Wall and reach the Dead Lands, where Jerry could work on lifting the Curse, they would need a hell of a bribe.

Or so Derek had said. When they’d dropped off the hunter and Holly in Milaris, after the two helped them acquire many supplies—he inquired about several matters. Jerry planned to visit them again. He liked Derek, and Holly, too.

However, fixing the Curse came first.

Apparently, the only way past the Wall was through Edge Town, a recently-built town by the Wall whose count was rumored to enjoy hefty bribes—bribes that villages also accepted, be they in coins or wooden horses. Jerry found this whole system pretty straightforward, and it fueled his enthusiasm for attracting customers.

“Hey, you!” He pointed at a random woman in the crowd, who looked around and pointed at herself in question.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Don’t you want to witness the one and only undead circus? Don’t you want your funny bone tickled? Don’t you want to laugh and gawk as skeletons perform feats beyond your wildest imagination?”

The woman crossed her arms in front of her chest. “As if. What can they do, eat a ball and rattle it in their chests?”

“That, too, I guess, but they can also juggle! They can raise an entire bench of people! They can walk on a tightrope way above our heads and jump on each other’s shoulders! They can even walk the tightrope while juggling and lifting an entire tree! This last one might be a lie, but if you don’t come, how will you know?”

The woman narrowed her eyes and glared.

“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!” Jerry pushed. “Your friends will discuss it for years! Just imagine; they’ll talk about this to their grandchildren! Don’t you want to be a part of that, too? The Funny Bone’s performance is a life-changing experience at best and three lost taels at worst. You tell me, is it worth it or not?”

She rolled her saliva, considering it.

“You guys caused the Red Week,” she said.

“That was one person a long time ago. I’m better than that; and, if you come to the show, you’ll see it for yourself! It’s just starting now, by the way. If you want to be in time, you’ll need to hurry.”

The woman smacked her lips. “I don’t have taels. Do you accept a jug of milk?”

“Sure.” Jerry smiled widely. For some reason, his skeletons all liked milk.

At this, the woman loosened up. “Can I bring my children, too?”

“Of course! Children are the ones who should see this the most! In fact, I will let you and all your children in for a single jug of milk.”

“Deal!” she shouted.

“Then hurry up and fetch them. The show is starting!”

The woman took off, and more people approached Jerry for offers. He smiled. The show wasn’t really starting yet; they had time.

Not five minutes later, the panting woman reappeared with five children and a suspiciously small jug of milk—Jerry had clearly gotten the short end of the deal, but whatever. At least now he knew why the next few people tried to lowball his prices.

“Hurry, everyone, hurry!” He ushered them in, accepting taels—they were small, bronze coins—valuables, and all sorts of commodities from people. The forest behind him was gradually beginning to ring with excited voices. Jerry smiled.

That’s how it always went. Everyone was skeptical at first, but once the ball got rolling, they were eager to join the fun. And why wouldn’t they? It was an undead circus. It didn’t get much better than that.

A trumpet call came from behind Jerry, and he turned around. “Oh, it’s starting! Come on, everyone, quick, quick! Buy your tickets so I can go watch, too!”

A few last people rushed to pay up, and when it was clear the rest wouldn’t follow, Jerry stepped off his crate, tucked it under his armpit, and walked to the circus.

Around a spacious forest clearing, the undead had set up benches and chairs. People took their seats, smiled, and talked animatedly as a lone skeleton played a triumphant trumpet call in the middle of the clearing. Meanwhile, Billy One wandered between the spectators and offered cheap snacks for a tael.

Luckily, Jerry’s zombies didn’t rot, and so didn’t smell either. With a few cloth patches on what wounds weren’t covered by their clothes, they appeared as human as possible, albeit very dead.

Jerry rushed through the benches, stepped over the ribbon which demarcated the stage, and walked to stand beside Boney. On cue, the skeleton’s melody intensified. Axehand’s drums accompanied it from behind the stage in an increasingly frantic rhythm. The audience clapped and tapped their feet, staring wide-eyed in anticipation.

The music reached a crescendo, then suddenly, it was gone. Jerry took a deep breath.

“Welcome, everyone, to the Funny Bone Circus!”

The audience erupted in cheers.

“We have the best show in the world! From all over the Three Kingdoms, the most talented undead are here for your entertainment!”

They cheered again as the undead entered the stage.

Boboar walked at the front, little bells hanging from his tusks and various bone appendages. Foxy was beside him, clad in colorful ribbons and moving playfully, while Headless walked behind them, juggling two round stones and a shut-eyed head. The Billies followed; one walked on the ground, two more were perched on the first’s shoulders, while the final Billy stood on the shoulders of the previous two. Last in line was Axehand, balancing a rock-filled barrel on each hand.

“In the Funny Bone, everyone is special!” Jerry shouted, the undead parading around him. “We embrace our gifts and our personalities! We accept ourselves, support each other, and bravely face the world as one big family!”

The audience gawked in awe. As the sight captivated them, colorful specks of fabric rained from above as if the sky itself was participating in this wondrous spectacle—it was Birb, holding a bag of confetti and flying circles above the clearing.

“Enjoy, my friends!” Jerry said, stepping back until he was outside the stage. The undead followed until Headless was the only one left, still juggling, and he slowly walked to the very center. He’d stopped juggling, and silence followed as the audience waited. What would he do?

Headless took a deep, fake breath and threw both stones in the air, followed by his head.

Boney ran back onto the stage carrying three round stone balls. He stepped in front of Headless, holding one of the stones before him. Amidst his juggling, Headless grabbed the stone, and threw it up high.

He was juggling four items—one being his own head! The audience was impressed!

But it wasn’t over! Five items! Six!

Headless was on a roll! The audience cheered in surprise, expecting him to drop something, but he did not. After he’d kept it up for a solid minute, he grabbed them all in midair, stopped juggling, and bowed.

The audience clapped, positively impressed.

However, Headless’s act wasn’t over.

Boney ran back onto the stage, taking away the five stones and handing Headless a set of four short, flaming torches. The audience held their breath. Headless held his head in one hand and four torches in the other, raised them in front of him, concentrated… and threw them into the air.

One torch turned into two, then three, then four, and the shut-eyed head was flying between them like a bird dancing in the flames. The audience went crazy, a new, louder round of cheers rising to flood the clearing. Was he going to miss a torch? How could he even see?

But Headless wasn’t going to miss. In the middle of juggling five items, he threw his head really high up, and when the spectators followed it with their sight, at the apex of its trajectory, the head opened its eyes and winked.

They went bananas.

Headless caught his head as it was falling, having already caught all torches while the audience wasn’t looking. Amidst frenzied cheering and shouting, amidst hollering and screams and a grand ruckus, he bowed once again, ending his act and leaving the audience clapping for a solid half-minute.

“More!” they shouted. “More!”

Headless’s head smiled as he backed off the stage. His part was done, and it was only the opening act.

Boboar and Foxy were next, with Boney helping them.

Foxy ran in with the grace of a feline—or an agile canine—jumping and turning in the air while letting the ribbons fly around her body. She was a trained dancer, and a fox, and a skeleton, and had ribbons, and the audience didn’t know what to cheer for first.

Boboar accompanied her like a gentle bull, carrying his lumbering body through the stage as lightly as he possibly could. Boney held large and increasingly tall rings for Boboar to leap through, which he did! The bells jingled all the while, complementing Foxy’s ribbons and lending the spectacle an amalgamation of silly, impressive chaos.

The audience cheered, already ramped up by Headless’s performance.

Axehand was the next to appear, and when the audience saw him empty-handed, they were at first disappointed. Then, when Boney asked for volunteers and a bunch of young boys rushed to climb on a bench in the middle of the stage, they were expectant. Axehand stuck his axeblade hands into that human-packed seat and easily raised it above his head, they were overawed, because this feat of strength was clearly superhuman!

Axehand didn’t stop there. He lifted rock-filled barrels, a large log, even the circus wagon itself with all its cargo—and just when people thought that was all, the double-skeleton reached inside the bag he was carrying. He removed a block of wood and sat on the log, then slowly used his axe-hands to carve a delicate wooden horse on the spot, live, right in front of the audience. A series of oohs accompanied the strongman’s tender side, and a few women even found themselves mysteriously attracted to this clearly unsuitable skeletal mate.

After Axehand came the last act, the Billies, and they were saved for last on purpose.

“Look up!” Boney shouted, and only then did the audience notice a taut rope stretched between two thick, distant branches, easily thirty feet above their heads. A zombie appeared on one branch and stepped on the rope, and the audience gasped, for they had never seen an acrobat before.

Away from everyone’s gazes, Jerry clenched his fists. This was the act he always worried about, because it was the only dangerous one. Thankfully, the undeads’ simple-mindedness helped with repetitive tasks, and the Billies’ innate, excellent balance made them really good at what they did. Moreover, undead were generally more consistent in their performance than humans, in part due to their cold nature.

They had practiced this a thousand times. They wouldn’t fall, right?

Billy One stepped on the tightrope and took one trembling, hesitant step after another. The audience held their breath, one voice even calling out a warning.

Then, the Billy’s trembling body straightened, and the rope stilled as the zombie stopped pretending and started walking for real. He made it look easy. People cheered.

Billy One reached the other side and Billy Two appeared back on the first branch. The two zombies, each exceptionally hillbilly, stepped on the rope at the same time… and it held. Despite the swaying, the two Billies rotated their arms in sync, using them to find their balance, moving one up and the other down gracefully, like dancers.

They reached the center of the rope, right where it swayed the most. They shared a glance, then slowly began passing by each other, somehow balancing on the same length of rope as their feet intertwined. The Billies made it!

Amidst cheers and cries, they stepped away from each other, reaching the ends of the rope before two more Billies took their place, repeating the previous feat—they didn’t have a four-person airborne act yet but were working on it.

Meanwhile, the audience cheered and cheered, surprised at seeing people walk on ropes. Who even did that!

Soon, the Billy act was done, and with that, the metaphorical curtain fell on the circus performance. Everyone was standing now, clapping before they knew it, and all undead gathered on the stage to bow and accept their rightful cheers.

“What will you do tomorrow?” a man asked.

“Something similar, but different!” Jerry replied, full of pride, and everyone kept clapping and reassuring their friends and families that, indeed, they could return tomorrow to watch the spectacle again.

Eventually, everything comes to an end, and the crowd dissipated. A few people even invited Jerry for a drink, but he politely refused as he had to help his undead clean—it wouldn’t be right to let them handle all the work.

However, a particular person arrived to mess with Jerry’s plans for the night.

It was a man seemingly in his early forties, with a wide brown hat and deep olive eyes which were both friendly and hard. The cheekbones that showed under his brown stubble were sharp, making him quite handsome, while his confident gaze and easy smile spoke of a man exceptionally friendly, as well as very used to getting his way. Under that wide smile, white teeth appeared—a rarity—while the leather vest he wore was old and sturdy.

However, what drew Jerry’s attention most were the man’s boots, a pair made with outstanding craftsmanship. The moment he laid eyes on them, the necromancer knew he was dealing with someone important, or at least rich.

“Hello, Jerry necromancer,” the man said, extending a hand. “Excellent performance. My name is Marcus Copperfield, professional treasure hunter, and I have an offer for you.”

37

THE TREASURE OF DORMAN

In the Kingdom of Escarbot, not many villages had inns, but this one begged to differ.

The Fat Boar inn was a stub of a building, short and square. It barely had room for three tables inside, but when the weather was nice, they would often place another two outside on the cobbled courtyard where children liked to play.

Tonight was such an occasion—though, due to the late hour, there were no children rushing and yelling like tiny primitives. Only two groups enjoyed beers under the moonlight, one comprising of two drunk couples and the other of just two men, Jerry Shoeson and Marcus Copperfield.

Currently, Jerry relaxed on a soft blue pillow—he couldn’t carry his heavenly soft chair everywhere, so he kept the pillow as a substitute, placing it on every inferior chair he laid his buttocks on.

A decorative vine climbed a stone wall beside him, and the starry sky was visible beyond the empty, stone-paved village square. The place smelled vaguely of citrus, and the laughter of the nearby couples made for a nice background, as did the soft light coming from the side—the Fat Boar’s kitchen.

Jerry leaned in, dragging his tin mug over the rough wooden table.

“A treasure, you say?”

“Not a treasure,” replied Marcus, his easy, wide smirk inspiring a copy on Jerry’s lips. “It’s the treasure—the famous treasure of Dorman. Everybody knows it, from grannies in rocking chairs to babies in cradles. What world have you been living in?”

“A semi-conscious one, mostly.”

“I don’t know what that means, my friend, but you’re missing out.”

Though Marcus spoke slowly, his every word was uttered with a surety that his crisp voice only served to enhance. The treasure hunter leaned in, his voice tinged with excitement.

“Dorman was a legend; he lived six hundred years ago, during the Great Enigma, and he’s left inscriptions—riddles—on various ancient sites across the world. It’s the oldest and hardest treasure hunt, and at its end lies the richest treasure stash the world has ever seen… or so they say. Imagine what would happen if we found it; the things we could do.”

“Mhm, sounds good, I guess.” Jerry took a sip. “I could use it to bribe many villages.”

Marcus blinked in surprise before he kept going, “That’s one use of money, yes, but think larger. This is the stuff of legends. Why bribe a few remote villages when you can buy the entire kingdom?”

“I can buy the kingdom?” Jerry’s eyes went wide. “Why would I do that? Having a kingdom sounds very tiresome.”

“You could buy better equipment for your circus, too.”

“Now we’re talking!” The necromancer smiled. “I like that idea. Maybe I could buy the world’s softest wool and make a truly heavenly soft chair, too.”

“You have oddly specific wishes, but of course you could! You should snag me one of those chairs as well; my waist is not what it used to be.”

“I don’t know. Will Dorman’s treasure be enough for two heavenly soft chairs? I mean, kingdoms are nice and all, but some things are simply priceless.”

“If you can buy one chair, it isn’t priceless, so you can buy another.”

Jerry considered it. “You’re right, I guess.”

Marcus laughed. “You’re an odd one, my friend—can I call you Jerry?—but that’s all right. You know what they say, the best people are often crazy.”

“You can call me Jerry, friend, or crazy, whatever you prefer—I’ve heard worse. Some guy even called me mentally challenged.”

“Sounds like a horrible person. Come, let’s drink some more!”

Marcus was full of momentum, but Jerry did not dislike him—in fact, his instincts told him this was a great person to be swept around by. Laughing, they cheered and downed their cups, at which point Marcus wiped his stubble and said, “By the way, running a circus must be a pretty profitable business, right?”

“More profitable than shoemaking, that’s for sure. Undead circuses especially have all sorts of perks, like not having to feed everyone. I guess you could say we’re making some money. Oh, I know; the next round is on me!”

“Hahaha, excellent, excellent!” Marcus was in a great mood, and Jerry was happy, too.

“So,” the necromancer said after the next round of hay beer had been delivered, “back to that treasure of yours…”

“Yes. So, you see…” Marcus leaned in, speaking in a lower volume, and Jerry followed suit. “Many hints of Dorman have been discovered around the world, and most aren’t exactly secret, but nobody had been able to piece them together… until now. While exploring an ancient tomb in the Sea of Sands, I found a yet-undiscovered relic of Dorman!”

“You did?” Jerry gawked. “That sounds great!”

“It is the greatest discovery of my life.” Marcus nodded. “I quickly sealed the place back up so my local helpers didn’t see it, though not before I memorized everything. I then returned to my base and looked up the relevant information… and Manna be my witness, Jerry, I found it. I found the missing piece of the puzzle. Everything fell together and made sense… I have an actual map to Dorman’s treasure!”

“Congratulations!” Jerry said, leaning back and crossing his arms. “So, you know the location of the greatest treasure in existence, which no one has been able to find for six hundred years, and decided to share it with a random circus owner… Boney has warned me against guys like you. Said you’d steal my chair.”

“I have zero designs on your chair, Jerry, I assure you.” Marcus laughed, his smirk widening. The inn’s torches reflected on his eyes as they sharpened. “I know how this looks, so let me better introduce myself. I’m not just any guy. In the last twenty years, I’ve traveled the entire known world and discovered all sorts of treasure. In certain circles, I am a legend, as well as an experienced archaeologist. Finding a lost clue to Dorman’s treasure was a stroke of luck, but what I mean to say is that I’m not some guy.”

“You certainly seem like one. I ran into you in a village. All you have going is your boots.”

“I can see why you’d think that.” Marcus nodded.

“Even if you’re telling the truth, that still doesn’t explain why you’d give all this information to me. I’m just a circus owner. Cool, sure, but nothing earth-shattering.”

“No, Jerry, you aren’t just a circus owner. You’re a necromancer.”

Jerry raised a brow. “You want my undead to fight for you? That’s a hard no.”

“I don’t need to fight anyone. What I’m looking for is not undead, but a necromancer specifically. Running into you here was a stroke of luck. And the reason why, Jerry, is that Dorman’s treasure lies in a place where I could really use a necromancer by my side: the Dead Lands.”

“The Dead Lands?”

“Yes. Dorman placed his treasure in what would later become the world’s most dangerous place. Talk about bad luck.”

“I see. So, you need a necromancer to fetch it for you.”

“Gods no!” Marcus grabbed his chest. “I just want to recruit your help. I’ll get there myself or die trying.”

“Oh. Well, last time I checked, the Curse was rather unhealthy for the living.”

“Not if you know what you’re doing. The explorers of Alabaster—where I hail from—have gone everywhere in the known world, including the depths of the Dead Lands, and have long discovered a way to keep themselves safe from the Curse. I know the recipe to a wood nettle-based potion that makes you temporarily immune.”

“Is that so?” Jerry asked with disappointment. “I hate to break it to you, Marcus, but the wood nettle thing is just a superstition. It doesn’t actually repel the undead.”

“I am fully aware, but when mixed with the right ingredients, it does prevent affliction by the Curse. This has been proven multiple times.”

“What, really?”

“Really.”

“Oh.”

Would you look at that. Necromancers don’t know everything.

“But then, why me?” he asked. “If you can go to the Dead Lands yourself, what do you need me for?”

Marcus took a deep breath, leaning back in his seat. “Think about it, Jerry. Even if I can survive the Curse itself, the Dead Lands are not a hospitable place. Wandering roves of undead salivate at the smell of living flesh. Dark mists sprawl endlessly, devouring those who dare tread their depths. Mutated flora and fauna hunt the living as delicacies, and who knows what other, unspeakable dangers lie in wait. Necromancers are by far the most suited people to traverse the Dead Lands; without one as my guide and protector, I’m afraid that I wouldn’t survive.”

“So you do want my undead to fight for you.”

“Well, yes, but only in defense.”

Jerry considered it for a moment.

“You’re lucky I’m going to the Dead Lands anyway,” he said. “I’m still not convinced, however. Why me? I’m just a random guy with a circus. Sure, I’m a necromancer, but I can’t be the only one around. There are far more experienced necromancers who’d jump at the mention of massive treasure.”

Marcus grimaced. “Necromancers aren’t exactly common in these parts, and the ones that do exist are backstabbing individuals I wouldn’t trust with a single coin, let alone my life. You run a circus; that is so ridiculous it has to be true—or an extremely elaborate façade, but I don’t believe that. Moreover, if I’m being honest… you don’t seem like a fellow that would betray anyone.”

“That’s true.” Jerry nodded. “Unless they deserved it.”

“Let’s assume I don’t.”

“So, let’s go over this again,” Jerry said. “You know the location of a grand treasure in the Dead Lands and want me to escort you there. Is that right?”

“Very.”

“And then, how will we share it?”

“Naturally, I get all of it, and you get the agreed price for your services.”

“Oh…” Jerry was disappointed. “Can I have some of the treasure? I mean, you did promise me a heavenly soft chair.”

“I can throw in the world’s softest chair, too,” Marcus replied, growing defensive, “but if you insist, I could maybe give you… one hundredth of the treasure? And let’s say… a thousand taels for your trouble?”

Jerry vaguely recalled that a thousand meant ten hundreds. If one person paid three taels to watch their show… that was the equivalent of… at least a hundred people!

That many? Boney will be ecstatic!

Jerry didn’t really care about treasures and money; all he wanted was his friends, a heavenly soft chair, and to fix the Curse. He was already going to the Dead Lands, so it didn’t feel right to be paid for something he would have done anyway. He might have even helped for free, if Marcus had asked.

Of course, only fools refused free money.

“Throw in that chair,” he said, “and you got yourself a deal.”

Marcus grinned. “Great!” He reached out and practically grabbed Jerry’s hand to shake. “Excellent, excellent. We have a deal, Jerry!”

“Yes.” The necromancer smiled. “You seem like a good guy anyway.”

Marcus wasn’t listening, too busy smiling from cheek to cheek. “Wonderful, wonderful. In fact, this is so amazing that I will buy us the next thr—the next round of hay beer!”

“You will? Thank you, Marcus!”

Their cups had already been emptied, and new ones soon arrived. “Come, Jerry!” Marcus raised his cup. “Let’s drink to a long and fruitful cooperation!”

“Let’s!”

Their cups smashed into each other, and the two men emptied their contents. When Jerry wiped his lips, he was smiling.

I made such a good deal. Boney will be so proud of me. Hehehe.

38

BIRDS ARE SURPRISINGLY TALKATIVE

Necromancy is inaccurately named.

The practitioners of this school of magic often deal in corpses, ghosts, and icons of death, but that is not where our domain lies. A more accurate descriptor would be psychomancy, where ‘psycho’ is an elaborate word for soul.

Necromancers, or psychomancers, deal with the various flavors of soul magic, commonly including reconnecting souls to bodies, an application favored by a soul’s slow rate of deterioration. This is correlation, not causality.

Unfortunately, the term necromancy has become too widespread and cannot be changed. We would still advise all peers to keep the right term in mind, lest they miss the crux of their capabilities.

- An excerpt of the Introduction to Necromancy by Akolateronim.

Boney’s skeletal face was frozen. “How much?”

“One full hundredth, Boney!” Jerry replied with a smile. “Imagine that! One hundredth of the world’s greatest treasure… Am I a great negotiator or what?”

The skeleton’s eyes lit up with crimson flames, as did most of the other undead. They turned to look at Marcus.

“Easy there, pals,” the treasure hunter said. “The price includes a thousand taels.”

“One hundredth?” Boney repeated. “This is insulting. I demand a renegotiation.”

Marcus raised a brow. Jerry laughed.

“It’s fine, Boney. One hundredth of the world’s greatest treasure is already plenty—and besides, we shouldn’t go back on our word. Let’s just enjoy the ride. I’m sure it will be fun!”

Axehand grunted in reluctant agreement, while the rest of the undead did not intervene. Boney, left without allies, sighed deeply.

“From now on, never talk business without me, Master. Please.”

“Okay,” Jerry promised. “It’s boring, anyway.”

Marcus laughed, then resumed playing catch with Boboar. Boney sighed. This would be a long journey.

The northern forests of Escarbot were full of hidden life.

As the Funny Bone traveled along the rocky path, flickers of movement dominated the edges of their vision. Insects buzzed around the ground, a family of foxes peeked through a bush, and squirrels leaped from branch to branch overhead, heedless of the undead strolling beneath.

One squirrel even tried to bury a nut in the middle of the path and was forced to stop when the circus approached. It angrily waved a little fist at them.

“Escarbot isn’t grand or impressive, but I never get bored of it,” Marcus said, lounging over the colorful fabrics on the cart’s top. He raised a hand, blocking the sun that hit him through the foliage. “I have been to many places, you know. The Sea of Sands, Alabaster, Moonlight, the beginnings of the Jewel Archipelago… but none of them put my heart at such ease as this simple forest.” He released a tired sigh. “Still, a straight three-day trip is too much even for a traveler like me, Jerry. I admire your endurance.”

“A perk of the job. I once walked for two months in a row.” Jerry laughed from the cart-front, where he’d anchored his heavenly soft chair. “What were you doing in all those places, Marcus? Treasure hunting?”

“Treasures are a hit-or-miss situation. I usually fail a dozen times before succeeding once, so most of my excursions could be called vacations.”

“And do you often take advantage of naive locals?” Boney asked.

“Not that much. I usually take advantage of over-talkative, sarcastic skeletons.”

“Very humerus. And then what? You sacrifice them to the ancient spirits of gold?”

“Yes,” Marcus replied seriously, and Boney would have raised a brow if he had one.

“I still don’t like this, Master.” He turned to Jerry. “Please, please, can we please renegotiate?” To his horror, the necromancer only laughed.

“That ship has sailed, Boney. You win some, you lose some. Let’s just enjoy the ride.”

Headless grabbed his head and moved it up and down, nodding in agreement, while Boboar oinked happily from up ahead. The four Billies also nodded in perfect synchronization.

“See, Boney?” Marcus glowered from above the cart. “Everyone is with me, and do you know why? Because I have the high ground—morally and literally.”

“Bah.”

“Look, even Birb is perching on my shoulder. It likes me! Right, Birb?”

“Now you’re just lying.” Jerry laughed. “Birb is scouting up ahead.”

“No, it’s on my shoulder.”

Jerry turned to look.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, that’s certainly something, but it isn’t Birb.”

“Crap!”

Marcus slapped at his shoulder, making the bird fly off. It was dark-feathered and about a palm in size, similar to Birb—but its eyes were black, and as it landed on the cart’s edge, it stood with the unnerving stillness and numbness of a newly risen undead.

“By Manna…” Marcus grabbed his chest. “Why did you have to scare me like that, Jerry?”

“It wasn’t me, my friend.” Jerry stopped the carriage, climbing to its top to squint at the bird. “You are not one of mine.”

“I am not,” the bird replied, “but you can become one of mine.”

“Pardon?” Jerry said.

“Pardon?” Marcus said.

“AEIAOHA!” Headless said, throwing his head at the bird with enough force to send it off the carriage and onto the ground below. Jerry raised a brow at the enthusiastic zombie.

“That wasn’t very polite, Headless. I’ll admit the bird was shocking, but that’s no reason to be rude.”

The zombie’s shoulders hunched, and somewhere beyond Jerry’s field of vision, its head pouted.

“That was an insult. I demand an apology,” the black-feathered bird ordered from the ground. Its voice was a man’s, crisp and young-sounding—but when the bird spoke, its mouth did not move. Though one of its wings was clearly broken, it did not seem to mind.

“Sorry, Headless is just overeager. He loses his head like that sometimes, but it’s part of his charm.”

“Hmph. Do you take me for an ignorant mundane?” the bird spoke with derision. “Your undead are under your complete control. Have them behave properly, not like rabid dogs.”

Jerry frowned. He disliked this bird. In fact, of all the birds in the world, this particular one was his least favorite.

“That was a very rude comment. Who are you?” he asked, jumping off the cart to approach.

“Careful, Master!” Boney leaped in front of him, arms spread wide. “It may explode!”

“It’s a bird, Boney. They don’t explode.”

“You’d be surprised,” Marcus said. “The Jewel Archipelago has a kind that violently self-detonates to defend itself.”

“Really? That sounds counterintuitive.”

“Well, it dies, obviously, but it deters predators from hunting others of its species. It’s a group defense.”

Jerry turned back to the bird. “Are you going to explode as well? We weren’t planning to approach your friends anyway.”

The bird did not reply, simply staring at Jerry so blankly, so emptily, that he thought it had died again.

“My name is Maccain Darkson, Herald of the Wizard Order,” it finally said, its voice gravely.

Marcus raised both brows. Jerry noticed.

“Nice to meet you,” he replied. “I’m Jerry, and I do believe we got off on the wrong foot. Speaking of feet, how about I make you a nice pair of bird shoes as an apology? I’m a shoemaker, too!”

For some reason, it didn’t seem very pleased with the offer.

“One of my undead informed me about you,” the bird continued. “It told me you’re stupid, an embarrassment to our kind, that you should be put down for everyone’s sake. I did not believe it, but I see now that I was wrong. Recruiting you would be the height of idiocy.”

“Your undead sounds terribly prejudiced. Why would it say those things?” Jerry frowned. “Besides that, what do you mean by our kind? I’m not a bird.”

“Jerry,” Markus said slowly, “you need to listen to me very carefully. That is not a bird. It is⁠—”

“Of course it’s a bird. Look, it has wings and a beak. What else could it be?”

“Maybe a chicken, Master,” Boney replied. “I believe they are not birds.”

“Really? That sounds unfair.”

“I think it’s because they can’t fly.”

“Listen to me!” Marcus snapped, and everyone turned to him in shock. “Herald Maccain is a two-feather necromancer and a high-ranking member of the Wizard Order. Stop messing around.”

He turned to the bird. “Sorry about that, sir. We had no idea.”

“Since when do mundanes speak amongst wizards?” The voice snorted. “Control your underling, necromancer.”

Jerry had to admit he was intrigued. It was the first time he ever met another necromancer! There were so many things he wanted to say, to ask, to share… but this person seemed unlikeable. Jerry crossed his arms.

“Marcus is not my underling. He’s my friend.”

Marcus coughed in his hand. “That’s maybe taking it a bit too far. We’re business partners.”

The bird was having none of it.

“Disgraceful!” it thundered. A hint of crimson appeared deep in its black eyes, and the mood instantly shifted. Jerry’s undead gathered around him, sensing something, while Axehand straight up stepped on the bird to keep it on the ground.

“Can we all calm down, please?” Marcus shouted, but he could not command the undead.

“Fine, fine!” The voice laughed. “A mentally challenged wizard associating with mundanes… I should have known. Watching you pains me, Jerry Shoeson. You are a disgrace to our kind, and still you dare to repeatedly insult me.”

“You sure spout a lot of bullshit for a bird,” Jerry said.

The bird’s face warped into a scowl. “Fine! I was planning to recruit you into the Order, but you are not worthy. Enjoy your last days of freedom, Jerry Shoeson. For insulting me, I will kill you and force you to serve me forever—and for daring to speak amongst us, I will do the same to your mundane pet.”

“But we are humans, while you are an angry feather ball. We just don’t fit. How about you raise a few more birds, form your own flock, and migrate north to cool off instead?”

The bird cawed as its feathers glowed red. Axehand’s bone foot instantly smashed into its side, launching it high into the sky, where it exploded in a small red cloud.

Everyone was left staring mutedly.

“Told you it could explode,” Boney said.

“You were right. I can see the deterrence factor, too; maybe it’s from the Jewel Archipelago.”

“Can we acknowledge the fact that we just received a death threat from a Herald?” Marcus asked.

“Well, in our defense, that bird had it coming.”

Marcus met Jerry’s gaze, then sighed. “That’s great treasure hunting right there. We haven’t even gotten started, and we’re already hunted by a Herald.” He rubbed his nose. “I don’t want to spoil your fun, Jerry, but that guy is crazy strong. Let’s try to come up with a plan, okay?”

“Exactly how crazy strong are we talking about? I’ve heard legends about the Wizard Order before, but nothing about a Herald.”

“Rumors? Bah! The Order is very real, Jerry. They’re a shady organization that preaches wizard supremacy over us normal people—mundanes, they call us. Its existence is a secret, supposedly, but it’s so powerful and influential that everyone important knows. They command thousands of wizards and only seven Herald, so any one of them should be enough to completely obliterate our group, unless you can make another dozen Axehands. They’re all two-feather wizards, and not weak ones, either.”

“Oh. Okay, but it’s not like he would seriously come after us, right? Important people ought to be busy, not running around hunting circuses for little reason.”

“Probably… but you never know. Let’s keep him in mind, just in case.”

“All right. A plan would be good to have, then. How about this? We get to the Dead Lands quickly, and then the Wizard Order can’t reach us. They may have fingers everywhere, but not there—I hope.”

“You’d be surprised. But yes, that’s a reasonable idea.” Marcus nodded. “Getting past the Wall is not so easy though. We’re close to Edge Town, but it’s said to be terribly disciplined, and crossing the wall involves lengthy bureaucracy. Could take a few days—even with bribes.”

“And if that Herald catches up, he won’t try to kill us in the town, right?” Jerry asked.

“I hope so. The law is only as strong as the people enforcing it.”

“In that case, we should get going.”

“Yes. If we hurry, we can probably get there by evening.”

“Great!” Jerry leaped onto the carriage. “Onward, Boboar! To Edge Town!”

Marcus laughed as he, too, jumped onboard, and Boboar oinked happily as he accelerated, pulling the cart along. Undead didn’t get tired or bored; Boboar enjoyed helping.

“By the way,” Marcus said as the cart trudged along, once again bobbing with the path’s holes and bumps, “you know that wasn’t really a bird, right? There was a person speaking through the bird.”

“Of course, but I had no idea necromancers could do that. I will copy him. Birb is needed for scouting, but… come, Foxy!”

Foxy jumped on the cart, coiling up by Jerry’s side, who placed a hand on her back. He laughed.

“Let’s see; can I become a ventriloquist?”

39

A VERY WARM WELCOME

The Wall of the Damned—or Damn Wall, as it was commonly called—had been constructed with the terrain in mind. It mostly followed the plains of Escarbot’s northern border until their very center, where there lay a ravine which funneled large quantities of undead into a small part of the Wall.

Escarbot’s largest military force was right there, fighting undead hordes day in and day out.

However, these troops needed a place to stay, and the Wall’s battlements could not hold them. The soldiers brought their families along and built houses for themselves; before long, a town had formed right behind the Wall.

This town was called Edge, signifying both its position at the very end of the kingdom and the sharpness it carried.

As one might expect, Edge’s economy was built around the kingdom’s support. Soldiers barely had the time to herd or farm, but Escarbot had generously pledged part of its coffers to the Wall, and, by extension, Edge.

Then as more and more people arrived to populate Edge Town, and as more and more families were left without soldiers and a steady stipend, a large mass of people turned to agriculture. This part of the Wall was built on plains, after all, and the ground was smooth and soft.

Fifty years after the Curse, the Red Week, and the construction of the Wall, Edge had become a hub of war-oriented economy. Soldiers, blacksmiths, merchants, and farmers made up the bulk of its people, while the fifty-foot-tall, gray Wall towered behind the town, extending to the horizon on either side and blocking the eye like a second sky.

Despite its seeming importance, Edge remained a largely insignificant place in the grand scheme of things.

In the same scheme, George was even more insignificant. Town guards came a dime a dozen in Edge, and only the least talented or brave of soldiers were delegated to this easy, boring task.

George was a man of little ambition, happy to do his part and spend the rest of his life in the service of the kingdom. He enjoyed his wife’s company, the cherry pies she made, as well as the few friends he had, with whom he often shared a pleasant drink at nights.

On a normal day like any other, George suddenly became far less insignificant.

Leaning on his spear as he was, George’s joyful whistle came to a stop. His eyes narrowed as he gazed into the distance.

“Hey,” he said, nudging his partner.

“What?”

“Do you see that?”

“See what?”

The other guard, a lanky man called Williams, looked at the horizon, where an odd shape bobbed violently to the paved path’s whims.

“Yeah,” he replied. “It’s a wagon more loaded than the count’s pockets. So?”

“Not that!” George hissed, gripping his spear tightly. “There’s a fucking skeleton!”

“Holy shit!” Williams parroted. “There’s a fucking skeleton!”

There was a fucking skeleton indeed, and not just that, but it also started playing music. A trumpet’s cry came first, followed by a drum’s beating, and the jingling of bells alongside an odd spit-whistling which sounded like a ‘prrt.’ Soon, the group of undead resembled an amateur’s orchestra, and though the sounds were faint, they steadily grew louder as the wagon approached.

George rubbed his eyes.

“What the hell?” he asked. “Should we report this?”

“Definitely. I’ll handle it, you keep them busy.”

Williams scampered off, leaving his partner alone with the particularly cheery undead. George, in turn, took a seat. He was going to need the rest.

Time passed, and the music wagon finally neared. With a sigh, George stood back up and went to meet them.

Oh, Manna, the skeleton has a party hat.

“Halt,” he ordered. “Stop that music, please.”

The music stopped, and a man jumped off the cart. He looked almost young—maybe thirty years of age—with a short dark beard and large, spirited, honest eyes that could never lie. A wide smile hung on his lips, while his body was wrapped in a wildly colorful tunic. The undead, of which George counted nine—oh, gods, have mercy on me—parted to let him pass.

The man was also carrying a large sack filled with misshapen objects, small protrusions jutting out all over.

“Greetings, necromancer,” George said, wearing his most professional face despite his fear. Necromancers were rare, but there was a protocol to dealing with them, a protocol George had memorized. The very first line said not to antagonize the necromancer. So did the second.

“Hello,” the man said. “I’m Jerry, this is Marcus”—he pointed at another man, slightly older but still energetic—“and these are my undead: Boboar, Foxy, Boney, Headless, Axehand, and the Billies. There’s Birb, too, but it’s flying overhead.”

“Of course.” George nodded. “Necromancers are welcome in the town of Edge, as is everyone. Could I have the purpose of your visit?”

“We want to get past the Wall.”

“Mhm.”

George felt it was reasonable. Most people would be fools to wade into the Dead Lands, but not necromancers—maybe. The count would probably agree.

“Very well,” he said. “However, you might have to wait a few days. The authorization process can be slow.”

“Slow?” The necromancer frowned, raising his sack. “But we’ve prepared bribes!”

“You’ve what?” George’s eyes bulged out. Oh Manna, I am not paid enough for this.

“Ahem, Jerry,” the second man coughed. “You should be more discreet with these things. Bribes are illegal.”

“I mean, everyone’s doing it so I don’t see the point, but I can be discreet if you want,” the necromancer replied, turning back to George. “I’m sorry. My tongue slipped. I meant bribe-shaped wooden horses, and a bunch of coins, too.”

The second man—Marcus—facepalmed. George’s mouth opened without sound. He wasn’t sure what to do, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to report a necromancer for anything!

Could that sack be filled with wooden horses? No, that’s stupid. It’s probably some sort of slang I don’t get.

“That, uh—I know nothing about horses, sir,” he stammered through. “But uh—maybe some officials enjoy riding? Still, sir, I think that even under the best circumstances, authorization takes a few days. If you’d excuse my wording, sir, our higher-ups have stuck their wooden horses so far up their arses they struggle to walk, sir.”

“Oh.” The necromancer seemed… disappointed? “So, they already have wooden horses?”

George did not understand the question, which meant he didn’t even have to feign ignorance.

“I don’t know, sirs. If you can wait a few moments, my partner will be back with the appropriate information.”

At that point, the second man stepped in, the notably non-necromantic one. A skeleton tried to trip him, but that made no sense; George assumed it was a stress-induced hallucination.

“What my friend here means to say,” the man said, “is that we’re in a hurry. I refuse to believe this process needs days.”

George gulped.

“I don’t know, sir…” That’s all he intended to say, but under the man’s stare, he kept speaking, “It’s an official procedure, sir, so it must be done officially. Papers need to be signed, approvals given. Those take some time.”

“I don’t see the reason. Signing a paper and saying yes takes three blinks of an eye.”

George tensed up further. “Sir, I’m just a town guard.”

“That won’t do. We need to accelerate things.”

Just as George was contemplating lying to escape their ire, Williams ran back out of the guard quarters.

“Excuse me,” he said with a slight pant, “are you the Funny Bone Circus?”

Both men seemed taken aback. “We are!” the necromancer said. “How did you know?”

“I reported your arrival, sir, and I received instructions from the count’s assistant herself. They request your performance in the count’s manor.”

“We’re being asked to perform?” The necromancer’s eyes went wide. He turned around. “We made it, guys, we made it! We’re a real circus now! We don’t even need to bribe people!”

The undead cheered, looking significantly less deadly and violent than anyone would have imagined. George was flabbergasted.

“Of course we’ll perform!” the necromancer said. “By any chance, could this count accelerate the procedure and get us past the Wall by tomorrow?”

The two guards exchanged a glance. It seemed they weren’t going to die.

“You will have to ask someone higher-ranked than us, sir. The count requested your performance for tomorrow night…”

“Hmm. Two days, then.” The necromancer looked at his living companion. “What do you think, Marcus? Are two days acceptable?”

“A night, a day, and a night,” the other man mused. He scanned the town wall with his eyes, then the Damn Wall, then George and William. “I hope so…” he finally said, and the necromancer’s smile widened.

“Excellent! We’ll perform for your count tomorrow night, then.”

The second man added, “Could we schedule an earlier appointment, too, to ensure we’ll be allowed past the Wall the day after tomorrow?”

“You could visit the Scribery, sir. With the count’s approval and your, uh, wooden horses, I believe they can arrange for that,” George said, ignoring William’s puzzled look.

“Great, great. In that case, we are allowed in, right?”

“Of course!” Both guards exchanged a grateful look. They’d survived!

With laughter and their music restarting, the undead—the Funny Bone Circus, apparently—waltzed past the gate and into the town, causing utter chaos that was decidedly not George’s job to solve.

On the inside, Edge Town was exactly as imagined.

An air of sharpness permeated the air. The buildings were all in shades of gray, angular, and built with utility in mind. There was clearly a town plan in place as the streets were straight and intersected in regular intervals. They were also kept mostly clean—not due to spectacular cleaning services, but because the people had enough ingrained discipline to not litter much.

Most people wore some piece of armor or another, and they walked with momentum, having places to be and things to do.

However, despite Edge’s apparent efficiency, the people did not seem well-off. Many wore rusted armor or patched-up clothes, broken clogs—wooden shoes—on their feet, and were skinnier than one might expect. Beggars were aplenty, most of them children, and anyone slightly more well-off walked with sharp eyes as if expecting to be mugged twice on every street.

When Jerry entered the town, this image of tidy poverty struck him as odd. He’d heard that Edge received generous stipends from the kingdom, and the farms around the town sounded bountiful, so where did all the money go?

Thankfully, Jerry was a genius at gathering information.

“Excuse me,” he asked a random pedestrian, “why are you poor?”

The young man, frozen in fear as a bunch of undead had suddenly appeared from the town gate beside him, pissed his pants and ran away screaming.

“That wasn’t very polite.” Jerry shook his head, turning to Marcus. “Why are these people poor?” he asked again, but the treasure hunter only narrowed his eyes.

“Defending the Wall takes a lot of supplies, probably. You know, arrows and stuff.”

It was already afternoon, and the Funny Bone—and Marcus—had a plan: go to the town square and perform. After all, their performance for the count would be tomorrow, so they had time.

That plan had to be immediately put on hold. The very moment Jerry’s undead stepped through the gates, a wave of ogling eyes spread through their surroundings, followed by waves of screams, whispers, fleeing, and general mayhem. Most people only looked appalled, but a few were downright terrified and ran away.

Before long, chaos ensued in this entire part of the town, as screams led to more screams and a flood of people struggled to escape, clogging the roads and leading to a small stampede.

Another group of people, smaller but imposing, stood their ground and glared at the undead with hands on the hilts of their weapons. Some had fire in their eyes, others suspicion. All of them, without exception, were hardened soldiers, and the weight of their gazes pressured even Jerry.

“Easy, easy!” Marcus shouted, raising his hands in the air. “We won’t harm you!”

“That’s right!” Jerry added. “We’re good guys!”

That did not help the screaming. Fortunately, most denizens were only visibly suspicious of the undead and did not start running. The soldiers still glared.

“Forget about it, Jerry,” Marcus said. “Let’s just wait.”

Jerry nodded. The undeads’ circus music turned into a lounge variant as they waited for things to calm down.

People whispered at each other, some explaining about necromancers, and after a few minutes, those who wanted to run had run, and the chaos had come full circle. Silence fell—the dangerous, pregnant with violence kind.

“What do you want?” one of the soldiers asked, a young man with a sharp face and burning eyes.

“Ah, finally. Listen up, everyone,” Jerry spoke aloud. “I’m a necromancer but also a good guy! Me and my undead will not harm you. We are the Funny Bone Circus, and we’re only here to make you smile!”

This time, the silence was the shocked kind.

“Good luck with that,” said the same soldier as before. “You brought undead into a Wall town.”

“Yes, that’s a bit unfortunate. I can make shoes too if you prefer.”

Marcus stepped forth. “We plan to perform at the city square, then find lodging for the night. We truly mean no harm.”

“You better not,” another soldier said, an older one, approaching and taking his hand off the sword’s hilt. “Everyone here has lost loved ones to the undead. We fight them day in and day out; we hate them, and we know what kind of people necromancers are. Most would rather attack you than enjoy some perverted show.”

“Do you really think so?” Jerry was sad. “Would a wooden horse change your mind? Or a bribe, maybe?”

The soldier’s gaze turned confused. “If you have money to spend, necromancer, I’d suggest finding an inn and holing up in there till morning, then getting the hell away for everyone’s sake.”

“We can’t do that,” Marcus replied. “We plan to get past the Wall, and we’ve been invited by the count to perform at his manor tomorrow.”

Mentioning the count was an attempt to smooth over things. Except, the moment Marcus brought up the name, the atmosphere turned oddly chilly. The situation became rougher instead of smoother. Marcus’s eyes narrowed.

“Suit yourselves,” the soldier said coldly, turning around. Without another word, he walked away. Everyone else similarly turned away from the group.

“That was odd.” Jerry cupped his chin. “What happened there?”

“What happened, Master,” Boney replied, “is that now we know why these people are poor.”

“The count doesn’t appear to be well-liked,” Marcus said, “but let’s not rush to conclusions—we have the entire day tomorrow. For now, let’s just go have that show and make some money.”

“But that soldier said people hate us here. He said nobody would pay to see our show.”

“He may not understand people as well as he thinks.” Marcus smirked. “Let me handle things. Can I have the expedition funds, Boney?”

Marcus and Jerry—or rather, Boney—had each contributed fifty taels into a pouch they called ‘expedition funds.’ All expedition-related expenses, like lodging and food, would be paid from there. It was the result of Boney’s fierce insistence that Marcus had very begrudgingly accepted—and, of course, the skeleton was the one carrying the pouch.

“Why?” Boney asked. “Don’t you have your own money?”

“This is a common expense, bonehead. You’ll see.”

Boney reflexively tried to raise a brow, failed, and passed the pouch to Marcus, who retrieved ten taels from inside.

“Now watch,” he said, moving toward a gathering of child beggars. Before long, ten children rushed through the town, announcing the presence of the Funny Bone and how they meant no harm.

“Get the music started, boys,” Marcus said. “There’s money to be made.”

40

DEMANDING FOOTHOLDS

“Watch the Funny Bone, the circus of undead! Don’t be afraid, they’re friendly!”

“An undead circus is rarer than flying whales! Don’t miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!”

Ten children dressed in rags darted through the streets of Edge, preparing the ground for Jerry’s circus. People turned to look, and as they heard the funny music approach, their eyes widened, and they dropped everything they were doing to ogle.

When the undead showed up, most people stepped back or glared. A minority didn’t, and it was this minority that the Funny Bone set their sights on.

“I can’t believe you spent ten taels for that,” Boney said.

“Twenty, actually,” Marcus replied. “They’ll each get another tael when they’re done.”

“What!”

Marcus laughed. “Relax, Boney. I like money as much as the next treasure hunter, but this is an investment! It’s how real money is made! By the time you guys are ready to perform, everyone will know what’s happening by word of mouth—and, if only ten people show up, at three taels a head, we’ve made a profit!”

“We need ten people just to cover our show expenses,” Boney said. “All those flaming rings and torches work on pig fat, which isn’t cheap. We also need fabric for confetti, ropes for the Billies, bribes to ensure everything runs smoothly… Frankly, in this town, I’ll be glad if we can break even.”

“Believe in curiosity, Boney. These people have been fighting undead their whole lives—this is a rare opportunity to see the other side of it. Many will come, you’ll see.”

“I suppose the shouting children inspire good faith.” The skeleton cupped his chin. “You’re good at exploiting people, aren’t you?”

“I would never!” Marcus acted hurt. “The best deals are win-win ones. Those children will eat well tonight because they helped us. If you were in charge, we’d already be labeled villains.”

Jerry absent-mindedly listened to the conversation from where he sat on his heavenly soft chair at the wagon’s front, holding the reins to Boboar which he never pulled. He wasn’t really paying attention. It was the first time in his life he visited a town, and the sights swept him.

Over the street, ropes stretched between windows, where a woman with long, dark hair hung her clothes to dry. A man sat behind a stall, selling the hot bread he cooked on a small stove. Heat poured out of a blacksmith’s workshop. Doors and windows opened and closed. People talked and shouted, letting an ever-present din float lightly over the town—Jerry couldn’t hear it due to the circus music, but that’s what he imagined.

“What a lively place…” he said in awe. “Don’t you think so, Headless?”

The zombie, walking next to the wagon, moved his head up and down to nod. On the other side, Axehand grunted in surprise.

“Hmm?” Jerry turned to look.

Axehand made another grunt, this one intrigued, drawing Jerry’s attention to a street carpet filled with wooden sculptures. They were cruder than the skeleton’s works but sported a series of diverse shapes.

“Oh wow,” Jerry said, suddenly interested—to the terror of their owner. “Look at that. A dog, a bird, a tree, a… a… what’s that?”

The street peddler—a middle-aged, slim, tanned man with bare feet—opened and closed his mouth without sound. Jerry’s object of curiosity was a ship-like sculpture with an oblong shape placed over it, supported by small wooden columns.

“Hey, Marcus,” Jerry turned to the treasure hunter, “I saw one of these on the town’s emblem, right above the gate. What is it?”

“It’s an airship,” Marcus said. “During the Red Week, Escarbot had one of these—the Eye of the Sky—patrol and bombard the border to make sure no one got past. After the Wall was built, the airship was stationed here, in Edge, as a reminder of the kingdom’s abilities. It should still be here, but now it’s just a relic.”

“Actually,” Boney chimed in, “it’s regularly maintained and kept in good condition. If the Wall ever falls, the town officials are to ride the airship back to the capital.”

Marcus raised a brow. “How do you know that?”

“I come from an upper-class family. These things are common knowledge.”

“What’s an airship?” Jerry asked again, welcoming the pair of astounded gazes. Boney’s jaw clacked as he chuckled, producing the distinct sound known as a ‘cluckle.’

“It’s a flying ship, Master,” he replied, “but don’t worry, that’s not a dumb question at all. How could you possibly imagine what an airship does?”

“But how can a ship fly?”

“Something about hot air and light materials…” Marcus said. “I’m not too sure myself, but I helped fly one of these in the Sea of Sands. Handy little toys.”

“Oh, wow…” Jerry’s mouth was gaping. “Do you think we could buy one? I want to fly as well.”

“They’re not for sale!” The treasure hunter laughed. “Can you imagine the chaos? That said, if you had enough taels…”

“How many is enough?”

“Maybe a hundred thousand.”

“Oh.” Jerry deflated. He sighed, then turned to Axehand. “Anyway… What do you think, buddy? Want a sculpture for inspiration?”

The double-skeleton gazed at the wooden sculptures again, inspecting their crude makings. He then grunted disdainfully and kept walking.

“Sorry, my friend,” Jerry told the merchant, laughing. “He’s a picky one. If it’s any consolation, I liked them!”

The peddler could only hiccup.

The circus continued through the city, spreading chaos and attracting all sorts of glances. Jerry himself wasn’t shy either; as this was his first time in a town, he took in every sight and didn’t even realize they’d reached the town square until the street opened wide.

A plaza stretched as large as the entire village of Pilpen. Houses and shops lined its sides, some of them paint ed in various colors, while skinny pigeons walked through the plaza, bobbing their heads up and down as they searched for breadcrumbs to eat—frankly, it was a miracle the pigeons hadn’t been eaten themselves.

Across from them, a blonde girl sold flowers before a small house full of greenery, and right next to that house was a towering temple with a golden ball—probably wood and yellow paint—on its very top. A large clock adorned the front of the temple, with its complicated network of hands pointing at several numbers in several rings around the center, and Jerry could now see a large flock of pigeons nesting atop the temple’s roof.

The wagon immediately came to a halt, as did the music, all undead sensing his sentiment.

“Wow,” Jerry spoke from his heart. “It’s beautiful.”

In that one moment, Jerry was glad he’d left Pilpen, and for every decision that led him to here and now. His horizons had been irreparably broadened.

“Boney, look! That’s amazing!”

“I know, Master. It’s a temple to Manna, the Goddess of Light, and a clock tower along with it.”

“But that’s taller than my tower! How did they make it so big?”

“By placing one stone over the other,” Marcus stepped in. “Impressive, isn’t it? There’s one of those in every town.”

“Really? That’s amazing!”

“The church of Manna is very particular about her worship.” Marcus laughed. “In any case, I think the center of this plaza would be a good place to set up shop.”

“That can’t be legal,” Boney said.

“We have bribe money and the count’s name behind us. We can try.”

“Let’s give it a shot,” Jerry agreed, giggling. “I want to host a show under that tall tower.”

“Very well, Master. Shall we get started, then?”

“Let’s.”

With practiced movements, the undead started unloading the tower of colorful cloth from the wagon. There were iron stakes in there, as well as a lot of fabric, and the people around the square could only watch in shock as the undead got to work.

Slowly, a red shape took form. As the Billies hammered iron stakes into the stone, the tip of the fabric rose, and rose, and rose, until the center of the plaza housed a large, multicolored tent. People gawked. Eventually, a short half-hour after construction began, the circus tent had been fully erected. A small red flag waved over its tip.

Marcus gawked, too. “That’s a big tent.”

“Of course,” Boney said. “Only the people who pay get to watch. What are we, amateurs?”

“All right, everyone!” Jerry clapped once. “Let’s get to work. Night will fall soon, and we need to be ready before that!”

With excited cries, the undead rushed inside the tent, followed by sounds of things unfolding and clanking against each other. Only Jerry remained outside, using the empty cart as a scaffold to stand high above the crowd and shout for customers. They’d already been a circus for a month, and by now, everyone more or less knew their job.

“Come, everyone, come! Only three taels a head, two for the children!” Jerry shouted.

Of course, most people stared as if he’d told them to eat shit, but a few curious ones approached. “What is this?” they asked.

“This, my friends, is the Funny Bone, the one and only circus of undead! Prepare to see skeletal animals perform tricks, zombies juggling their heads and balancing on each other, and skeletons lifting groups of people as if they weigh nothing!”

Soon, a small crowd had formed around Jerry, and whispers were breaking out left and right. Nobody had volunteered for a ticket yet, struck as they were by hard glares from all around the square, but they clearly considered it.

“The first ten people get a one tael discount!” Marcus shouted, stepping up beside Jerry. A few more whispers later, two people stepped forth—one was the flower-selling girl from before, and the other a child beggar that Marcus had paid to spread the word. Curiosity was painted on its little face.

“Come, come!” Jerry shouted, smiling and accepting their taels—but secretly refused the child’s, winking and returning it. He didn’t want to take money from people who needed it.

Marcus didn’t see that, already golden-eyed from the prospective profit, and his shouts grew increasingly passionate. After the ball had gotten rolling, more people joined in the fun, and even more people trickled from the square’s edges into the hesitant crowd in front of the circus entrance.

Marcus looked at them and saw walking taels.

“What do you think you’re doing!” a voice thundered from the side as ten armored guards stepped forth, and Marcus, smiling, quickly walked off to meet them. A few short moments later, the guards left quietly, their pockets slightly heavier.

“But remove those stakes!” they shouted as they left. “You’re ruining the square!”

Boney took over this task, having the Billies replace the iron stakes they’d already nailed into the square with heavy rocks and debris they scoured from around the city. Beggars—especially the child ones—were happy to source rocks in exchange for free entry.

More and more people trickled into the circus, surpassing a few dozen now, and Jerry was beyond himself with joy. Beggars or poor-looking people were still accepted for free, of course, and not a single one of them spilled the beans. A few more guards showed up, but Marcus easily took care of them, already dreaming of the torrential profit they’d make. Soon, the circus tent was so packed that Jerry had to consider taking the performance out in the open.

A quick scolding from Boney later, they simply removed the benches and had the people crowd together. A few complained, but most didn’t seem to mind.

By now, the entirety of Edge Town was in an uproar, and the judgmental glares increased as rapidly as the circus’s customers. Nobody tried anything, fortunately for them, and as the sun disappeared behind the far-off mountains, the performance was ready to begin.

Suddenly, a deep horn-call came from atop the Wall, capturing people’s attention for a few seconds before they returned to glaring at the circus. Jerry looked up.

“What’s that?” he asked a person that was paying up.

“It’s the war horn,” they replied. “It means there’s a horde incoming, but don’t worry. The soldiers on the Wall will handle it.”

Jerry wasn’t worried. On the contrary, he was intrigued.

“Marcus, can you take over?” he asked, already mentally commanding the ever-scouting Birb to fly over the Wall.

“Sure, why?”

“There’s something I need to do.”

Jerry entered the tent, pushing through the crowd and through the stage to reach the small part of the tent where the undead prepared their acts, separated from the crowd area by a tall wall of cloth.

“I will borrow Birb’s senses for a while,” Jerry said. “Handle yourselves, okay?”

“We will protect your body with our lives, Master,” Boney said, eyes hinting at crimson. “And we’ll give these people a great show as well.”

“Great. I trust you completely.”

He sat on his heavenly soft chair—oh, the softness—and closed his eyes, sending his senses into Birb. A blue sky appeared before him, and as the bird zombie looked down, a long gray line split the terrain, green on one side and black on the other.

On the Wall stood a row of soldiers, humans armed with bows and crossbows and lances and swords. Why swords? Jerry wondered, but his attention was instantly drawn away as he noticed the colored feathers.

There were wizards, too! Pyromancers, hydromancers, biomancers, and photomancers—besides necromancers, all schools of magic were present, and the feathers on their shoulders were anything but discreet. There was even a two-feather biomancer commanding them; it was the first time Jerry ever saw an elite wizard!

Through Birb’s sharp eyes, Jerry could see everything, which included the horde of undead stampeding toward the Wall.

They were thousands. Most were zombies or skeletons. Some were odd and misshapen, some looked like zombies but felt different—even from this distance—and a few were clusters of sewn-together corpses. There were also undead animals, as well as birds, which the Wall itself could do nothing against.

Ah. That’s why they have swords!

As Jerry watched, with shrieks from one side and roars from the other, the undead clashed against the Wall.

41

HORDE AGAINST THE WALL

Julius and Meredith, my dear friends,

I write to seek your guidance, for I have reached the end of my wits.

The Wizard Order has escalated its operations within my borders and no longer bothers hiding. Their Sworn fanatics openly wear their feather tattoos. Their members openly preach wizard supremacy in my border towns, luring many of my kingdom’s wizards into their fold. What is more, my spies witnessed one of their Archmages, Makoa Pele, within my very capital.

I fear they will act against me soon.

The time has come to put aside our differences and unite against this common foe. Let us purge them into the Dead Lands, the Sea of Sands, and the Jewel Archipelago, where their sharp fangs will find little purchase. Let us protect our Three Kingdoms.

The Wizard Order does not reveal itself as openly in your lands yet, but after Escarbot falls, Alabaster and Moonlight will be next. By then, it may be too late to stop them. I implore you to assist me, my friends. When my kingdom is safe, I am willing to offer any compensation within reason.

I await your response,

The King of Escarbot,

Palagon Autumn

- A letter allegedly depicting communication between the Three Kingdoms, intercepted at the Moonlight-Escarbot border.

A tidal wave of undead barreled against the Wall of the Damned, falling on it with unstoppable force. Stone cracked and metal groaned, but fortunately, pure physicality was insufficient to overcome the Wall.

“MEN!” a commander shouted from above; a tall, well-built woman with fiery eyes. “ATTACK!”

The soldiers roared, the undead shrieked, and all hell broke loose.

Watching through Birb, Jerry was speechless. How was this a common occurrence!

The horde of zombies crashed against the Wall. Many were stampeded, but even more fell on the first wave and climbed on their shoulders, mindlessly striving to reach the top. Their eyes were hollow, their features twisted in a desperate desire to kill.

The skeletons fell on the zombies a beat afterward. Being lighter, they scrambled atop their fleshier brethren, cutting through them to reach the top. It was a heavily inefficient attack riddled with friendly fire, but the undead were thousands, and the Wall fifty feet tall. Lacking ladders and intelligence, the horde was climbing itself.

A command rang out from above and pots of burning oil were poured on the undead, sizzling their flesh and making them fall like a rotten staircase—they could not feel pain, but the burning of their body weakened them nonetheless. For a moment, the undead retreated—and then returned in force, slamming against the Wall’s stone with even greater momentum and breaking against it like water on rocks.

Suddenly, a dark power spread out and filled the undead, empowering them. Birb instinctively turned its gaze towards the center of the horde.

A different undead stood there. It was a creature wrought in dark mist and donning black plate armor, crimson flames burning under its open helmet and shining through the gloom. A greatsword was held in one of its hands, seemingly weightless, while the other was raised at the Wall as if trying to tear it apart by sheer force of will.

Jerry stumbled and almost lost his connection to Birb by the shock; whatever this thing was, it wasn’t only strong, but it had magic. It was doing something, and the undead grew stronger as their numbers thinned.

“A death knight!” the Wall’s commander shouted, surprise coloring her voice. “Men, you must hold! Wizards, focus your fire! Destroy it!”

The Wall’s battlements flashed on cue. Balls of fire, stakes of ice, thin jets of water, and blinding light; a wild torrent of magic burst forth and headed for the death knight, except it was protected.

Three lumbering figures stepped forth, using their misshapen bodies to block the spells. Through steam and smoke and hissing shadows, their forms were revealed—burned, wounded, but having borne the full brunt of the wizards’ attacks.

These creatures were made of several bodies stitched together, combined into horrific statues of grotesqueness. Jerry’s mind shuddered at the sight. These weren’t just grafted bodies, but grafted souls, forming a tangled maze of thoughts and personalities. They weren’t even real creatures, in the sense that most undead were. When so many souls smashed together, they became one jumbled mess, losing every source of individuality they had and coalescing into one monstrosity of terrible power.

With a soul that strong, the undead body it inhabited was naturally overpowered as well—that was how they’d been able to block so many spells. It was the same principle that drove Axehand’s and Boboar’s power, though Jerry had taken care to harmoniously combine the two souls into one creature. That was also the reason why he’d never managed to build a triple-bodied undead, and why the octoskeleton had been a failed experiment.

In strength and durability alone, these three monstrosities were far superior to even Axehand—but they lacked his intelligence, personality, and skill, as well as his ability to use his axe-hands to create beautiful sculptures.

No, these were not undead; they were monsters. Jerry hated their creator with a passion.

Monsters or not, these three remained obstacles that the soldiers had to overcome. Behind them, the death knight had sheathed his greatsword and raised both hands in the air, releasing pulses of dark magic that only Jerry could feel. The undead revolted and descended into deeper madness, a crazier frenzy; they threw themselves against the Wall with zero regard for their own safety, and Jerry felt his very soul ache at the sight.

This is not right. Undead are not supposed to be like this! Stop!

Only, they would not stop, and he had no way to make them.

The soldiers had run out of oil pots, but continued to throw rocks and arrows down at the undead. The projectiles buried themselves in the mass of bodies, dealing damage, just not enough. The undead kept climbing.

The flying undead reached the Wall. They fell on the soldiers like hail, wings and beaks and claws breaking against weapons and sturdy armor. Spears jutted out of the soldiers’ formations to smash the birds apart. The undead cawed and cried out, circling in the air and charging the living repeatedly.

Most failed, some didn’t.

The birds were weak, but they were many. Under their relentless attacks, some soldiers screamed as beaks pierced the gaps in their armors. There were casualties, albeit few.

However, even now, the undead assault was far from over. Regular undead, zombies and skeletons, started flying. Birb turned around.

The three lumbering monstrosities were grabbing undead and tossing them all the way up the Wall. They missed most of the time. It was the few who landed on the battlements, whose impacts alone were enough to disrupt the soldiers. The birds were still coming, as the main horde slowly climbed.

Jerry’s breath was caught in his throat. The undead were advancing, a veritable flood that could not be stopped before it drowned everyone. If this continued, the Wall would fall right here and now!

“Soldiers of Escarbot!” the commander’s voice echoed again, cutting through the sounds of battle to reach everyone’s ears. “Push back! Destroy them all!”

They roared, and they pushed. Zombies were driven off the battlements, tumbling into the horde below, and the birds were swiftly eradicated as half the wizards turned their attacks at them. A wide spray of fire destroyed many birds or rendering them unable to fight, and water jets cut through the flock, felling them by the dozen.

Even the biomancers had acted, including the two-feather leader, the one who had experienced his Awakening. They had a shorter range than other schools of magic but weren’t any less destructive. Where the two-feather wizard pointed his finger, the birds screamed and fell to the ground with multiple tumors growing on their wings. While the rest of the biomancers didn’t have such effects, they could still bring down birds by the flock, letting them struggle on the stone as their bodies malfunctioned.

On Jerry’s instructions, Birb flew higher, just to be sure. Biomancers had their weaknesses, but against creatures of flesh and blood, they were terrifyingly effective.

The grafted monstrosities kept catapulting zombies and skeletons over, but the trained soldiers had formed a wall of shields which intercepted them right at the Wall’s edge.

The birds were now dwindling, the catapulted undead were blocked, and the horde was climbing slower and slower, struggling to support its own weight. As soon as the undead reached within ten feet of the Wall’s top, a rain of spears fell on them, expertly diving in and out and dismembering several undead with each stab.

Whenever a spear got stuck or caught, its wielder simply let go, abandoning the weapon to the horde.

As time passed and the undead were unable to make progress, their numbers decreased. Before long, there were only a few hundred left, and the horde lost steam as there were no undead left to jump on the staircase of bodies.

Only a small core held strong: the death knight, the three grafted monstrosities, and a few dozen elite undead surrounding them.

Jerry released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding—dead himself, breathing was only a habit.

It’s over… he thought. The undead could no longer win, so they would retreat. It made sense. Jerry could clearly feel the death knight’s intelligence.

As one, the death knight and the three monstrosities sprinted at the Wall. Even Birb’s eyes opened wide. It can’t be! Jerry thought.

The four superior undead reached the base of the horde staircase, and then they jumped.

The ground cracked under their feet, dirt and rocks exploding as their four large bodies launched themselves at the Wall. They flew over the horde, reaching the top. The soldiers, as if expecting it, had already stepped back, leaving them room to land—and the second they did, every single soldier in the near vicinity fell on them like pack animals, crying out war and striking with every bit of strength and expertise they possessed.

The wizards unleashed another torrent of spells, far stronger and more numerous than the previous waves, and even the commander drew her longsword and leaped into the action, spearheading the attack.

The four undead were strong, but they were ill-prepared for such a quick, all-out assault. The grafted monstrosities waved their arms around, several soldiers falling off the Wall or flying backward with caved chests, but the sheer number of bodies thrown at the undead was impossible to stop. Moreover, as strong as these monstrosities might be, they were slow, and stupid, too. Some of their strikes went so wide they missed the literal flood of humans, and they didn’t think to stand close to each other to negate the pressure.

They were also exceedingly tall, each towering nine feet in height, making it easy for the arrows and spells to hit them.

Dozens of weapons bit into each of the monstrosities, cutting off arms and bits and pieces, and spells plowed their bodies like hoes on a freshly minted field. They stumbled; and then, one by one, they fell, on and off the Wall. They had caused many injuries, but the casualties were limited—of the two hundred soldiers, barely ten died.

The death knight, however, was a different story.

It was only slightly taller than the soldiers, making the spells and arrows struggle to find purchase. It was also intelligent and skilled with the blade, expertly twirling it around to prevent itself from being swarmed. Bodies, limbs, and weapons went flying; screams filled the air. The death knight’s strength was not too inferior to the monstrosities’, making most of the soldiers completely unable to meet its blade.

Most, but not all.

The commander stepped forth, meeting some of the undead’s strikes by herself and living to tell the tale. Her strength was clearly superhuman, but she was no wizard; only now did Jerry realize she was a nature spirit like Jericho, though perhaps less unkillable.

She was strong enough to block the death knight. By herself, she might not have been a match; thankfully, she had an entire army to support her. The soldiers fearlessly jumped into the openings she created, slipping into the death knight’s guard, where its greatsword could not hit them.

The superior undead was surrounded. Their strikes started landing, few at first, then many at a time.

The death knight released a feral cry, abandoning its intelligence in the face of certain destruction. It also abandoned its greatsword, using its bare hands to decimate whoever it could grab. Its plate armor held strong, blocking most of the desperate hits. The soldiers were fearless, and they kept attacking despite their fallen comrades.

More and more blades pierced its armor, and the death knight grew weaker. Its movements slowing, it dropped to a knee. Its crimson eyes flared a final time. The commander stepped close, driving her longsword straight into the death knight’s face, piercing flesh and bone until it met the back of its helmet, sending it flying and revealing a square-jawed, dark-haired man underneath.

The crimson disappeared; the flames went out. The death knight tumbled to the ground, completely lifeless.

And the soldiers cried out in massive triumph, yelling for their devastation, grief, and glory.

The death knight by itself had claimed more than a dozen lives—as many as all the other undead combined—and injured twice as many; but in the end, it had fallen, and the brave soldiers had won.

The Wall held. And may it hold forever.

42

DEATH KNIGHTS

Little is known about the Great Enigma. What happened six hundred years ago? Where are the Primordials, are they alive or dead, and why are those world-shaking events missing from every historical record?

Many connect this enigma to Dorman, the mysterious explorer who lived during the same period. For reasons unknown, Dorman traveled the entire world and left cryptic inscriptions in various ancient sites, said to point toward his treasure. Nothing else is known about this person. Was he a traveler leaving his mark, or a devoted historian fighting against forces we cannot fathom? Did he have a treasure worthy of his legend, or are his cryptic inscriptions the products of madness?

We do not know. All we can hope is that, at the end of the trail he left for us, lies the answer to the Great Enigma. As historians, that is our greatest wish; because, unlike the Great Enigma itself, Dorman gave us something to work with.

- From the second chapter of The Great Enigma by Arabon the Mindful.

In the gentle darkness of the night, the circus tent stood tall amidst the town square. Torches from the surrounding buildings illuminated its sides, while the town’s sounds penetrated the cloth walls, giving the interior a lively, earthen ambiance.

The tent’s entrance flap had been pulled closed and the torches lit. A table was moved to the stage’s center and four chairs set beside it, one noticeably softer and woolier than the others. Jerry, Marcus, Boney, and Axehand sat around, mugs in hand and words—or grunts—in mouth.

“Have you ever considered not placing your tent in the center of the town square?” Marcus asked, frowning to the sound of two peddlers arguing outside.

Jerry nodded and said, “It did cross my mind, but this was the best place to perform. What do you think, Boney? Should we move it for the night?”

“Of course, Master. I would gladly work overnight to take down the entire circus tent, then re-set it outside the town only to take it down again tomorrow.”

“Hmm. You have a point.”

Axehand grunted in amusement. Marcus raised a brow. “But having a smaller extra tent never occurred to you, Boney?”

“Buying extra tents is hard when someone exploits you financially. Perhaps an extra hundredth would do the trick?”

“Ahem,” Marcus coughed in his hand. “I can live with some noise.”

“Speaking of living,” Jerry cut in, suddenly serious, “there is something I need to tell you.”

Everyone looked over. Boney’s jaw clacked in consideration.

Jerry continued, “You both heard the sounds of battle from the Wall earlier. Well, I borrowed the senses of Birb to watch the horde, and it was… unexpected.”

“Oh?” Marcus asked curiously, leaning in and sipping from his mug. “How so?”

“It was so visceral, bloody, and hard-fought… When I’d heard about the Wall’s defense, I’d imagined a few wild undead attacking by themselves, not an organized war horde.”

“Organized? What exactly did you see, Jerry?”

Boney leaned in as well, while Axehand only kept drinking. This was his third mug so far; apparently, he heavily enjoyed wine. Unfortunately, even though he was a particularly compact skeleton, it slowly dripped out of his ribcage.

“There were thousands of them,” Jerry narrated, “mostly zombies and skeletons. There was also a large flock of undead birds that attacked the soldiers on the Wall, and every single undead was so mindless and bloodthirsty that it honestly disgusted me. I mean, how did that happen? My undead are pretty good guys, but the ones beyond the Wall are insane!”

“That’s how undead are supposed to be,” Marcus said. “Besides yours, all the undead I’ve ever seen were lusting for blood… and then there’s Boney, who tries to kill me with bad puns.”

The skeleton shook his head. “I don’t understand that. We never become violent without reason. To protect Master or each other, sure, but not any more than the living do.”

“That’s what confused me as well.” Jerry nodded. “Boney and Axehand are how undead are really supposed to be. Those insane ones… I honestly have no idea why they’re like that, but it makes me very sad. I finally understand why people are so afraid of me. I can’t blame them.”

Marcus’s eyes deepened. “Before meeting you, I thought all undead were simply insane. Honestly, I don’t know much about the subject, but this is the first time I heard about docile, rational undead—it’s partly why I approached you. Maybe your necromantic powers are special? Every wizard has their own flavor of magic, so maybe this is just yours.”

“Maybe,” Jerry said, snuggling deeper into his heavenly soft chair for comfort, “but I don’t like this at all. Undead are supposed to be happy, joyful creatures like curious newborns… not that!”

“It could be the Curse, Master. Perhaps it’s twisting the undead, maddening them… or maybe it’s because they were wild undead.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

A few moments of silence went by. The dark wine glistened in Jerry’s mug, reflecting the torchlight, and the town’s din had begun to die down as the moon rose higher. He could feel his other undead resting in the tent, feel the torrent of human souls outside. In his senses, there were obvious differences between those two types of souls, but… how important were they?

Were humans and undead—humans and necromancers—truly irreconcilable?

Marcus spoke up, “You mentioned that the horde was organized.”

“Oh, yes.” Jerry nodded, returning to the present. “They all seemed to move to the same tune. There was also a strong undead that commanded the rest.”

Marcus and Boney gasped. “A death knight…” Marcus said.

Axehand paused his drinking. An intrigued grunt escaped his throat, and with crimson sparks in his eyes, he looked over.

“Right, that’s the name!” Jerry said. “What is that?”

“Well, my friend, it seems you witnessed a special horde,” Marcus explained. “Wild undead are mindless and have the tendency to join larger groups of undead. That’s how a horde is formed. A few undead walk together, and every undead that sees them follows by instinct. When they accidentally approach the Wall, they sense the life behind it and ram against it until they break.

“Sometimes, things are different. There are necromancers in the Dead Lands, that’s a known fact, and they are enemies of the Wall. They will occasionally instigate a horde and let their own high-ranking undead command it—wild undead are naturally subservient to stronger kinds.

“Many weird undead can appear, then, but the most dangerous ones are death knights, a necromancer’s magnum opus. Unlike most, they have skills and intelligence; their bodies are beyond sturdy, they are well-equipped, and some are also capable of magic, like augmenting their fellow undead. Defending the Wall is usually safe, but when death knights show up with a horde, the battle is always hard-fought. That’s when soldiers fall.”

Silence followed his words. Boney was thoughtful, while Axehand’s entire body shivered with excitement—hearing of a death knight had lit up his fire. He thirsted for a fight to prove himself.

Meanwhile, Jerry leaned back in his heavenly soft chair, digesting the information.

Some necromancers really are evil… And they don’t hesitate to throw those poor undead in the meat grinder…

The thought was nauseating.

“This sucks,” he said. “Undead should not be treated like that. Now, more than ever, I want to lift Ozborne’s Curse and save them all.”

Marcus’s eyes flickered. “That is a noble purpose. Undead matters aside, we need to get past the Wall first and somehow protect ourselves from those undead. I hope you can handle that, Jerry.”

“I can.”

“Good. Then, the plan remains as is. Tomorrow, we’ll visit the people in charge and ensure everything goes smoothly. We’ll perform for the count at night, and the day after tomorrow, we’ll be past the Wall and diving headfirst into the Dead Lands, leaving that Herald in the dust. That’s when our journey will truly begin…”

All nodding, they took deep gulps off their mugs, emptying them and slamming them on the table.

The next morning, George was relaxing by the town gate when a groan escaped his lips.

“Oh, not again…”

“What is it?” asked Williams, his partner. He brought a hand to his eyes, shielding them to gaze ahead.

Three people approached from afar, the rising sun framing their backs. Walking ahead was a hooded figure, surrounded by two creatures taller than any human had the right to be. Nature spirits… George frowned, anxiety building up inside him.

First, a necromancer, and now these things… What a bad time to be a guard.

However, around these parts, even nature spirits had to obey the rules.

“Halt,” he said when they approached. “Could I have the purpose of your visit, please?”

One of the nature spirits—a fat, one-eyed ogre with a metal club longer than George was tall—growled. George flinched. Williams gulped. The ogre gave a deep chuckle.

“Easy, Gorgon,” said the other spirit; a barefooted, black-eyed man with long, oily hair and hands as wide as shovel heads. “We’re here for business.”

“And”—George gulped—“if I may…”

“You may not.”

This man spoke properly, yet, for some reason, the sense of danger he exuded was even thicker than the ogre’s. If the ogre was a leashed wolf, then this man was a wild bear simply choosing to behave itself. For all his seeming calmness, violence was one wrong word away.

That didn’t even include the silent middle person, who oversaw everything with calm authority. Against his better judgment, George dared to glance in his direction. He was stunned.

A thin, horizontal scar ran across the man’s forehead, making him disturbing to behold. Below that scar, cold blue eyes gazed at George like he was an ant. The disdain there was palpable, and the strict lines around those eyes told George that he shouldn’t even consider challenging his ant-like nature.

For the first time in his life—and that says a lot for a guard—George felt like a piece of garbage by the side of the road. The inferiority was staggering. He stumbled back, then caught himself.

“Of course, sirs,” he replied, bowing deeply despite his shivering, for he was not a complete idiot. He stepped aside. “Please.”

Williams was momentarily frozen, but George pulled him aside as well—perhaps more violently than he intended, as the man tripped and fell. No one paid him any heed.

The two nature spirits instantly erased the guards from their perceptions, their gazes turning up. The scarred man took a step forward, then paused. On cue, the barefoot spirit said, “Let Decaron know that Herald Maccain is here.”

The scarred man, who had not spoken a single word, passed through the gate, followed by the nature spirits. Chaos once again erupted on the other side, but again, it was not George’s job to solve. He was sweating profusely.

On days like these, surviving was a success.

At least, tonight, he only had to guard the count’s manor. Finally, an easy task… No gates, no necromancers, no nature spirits… Only peace, he thought, and forced himself to smile.

43

THE ART OF BORROWING

“What do you think about this, Boney?” Jerry pointed to a length of rope. “Can’t we use it?”

“We already have rope, Master.”

“We have rope, yes… but what about a second rope?”

Under his hood, Boney’s jaw clacked.

With the sun high in the sky and today’s performance planned for the late afternoon, Jerry’s team was left with plenty of free time. They decided to spend it efficiently, acquiring all sorts of supplies for their upcoming expedition into the Dead Lands.

“Oh, oh! What about this?” Jerry pointed at a ball of goat hide. “I’ve been running low on shoe materials!”

“Do you plan to dress the Dead Lands into submission, Master?”

“Shoes are important!”

Boney took a long, trembling breath, then placed the hide into the sack they used to shop.

“Hey, you, with the cloak!” The shop owner, a little old woman, pointed at Boney. “I’m watching you.”

“I’ll pay, of course,” the skeleton said, then grumbled under his breath, “so give us a fucking break.”

Boney was dressed in a full-body cloak with a deep hood that hid his features. Discretion was best, even if it screamed ‘thief’ at shopkeepers.

The store they’d entered was called ‘Sally’s Goods,’ manned by a kind-looking old lady whose sharp eyes watched them from a stall by the door. It was placed there on purpose so the shopkeeper could stop potential thieves, though the old lady’s ability to stop anyone seemed questionable at best.

At the depths of the store, Tom and Jerry were surrounded by empty shelves and half-filled crates. Some held fruits, some vegetables, some tools, while others had clothes; everything that could rot was in very small quantities. This store didn’t see many customers.

“Look at this, Boney!”

Boney groaned. “What is it this time, Master? A table for the Dead Lands?”

“No, a flask for Axehand.”

“Oh?”

The steel flask was plain, with only the crude image of a wolf decorating its clean, gray exterior, and when Jerry twisted its top open to take a whiff, it smelled clean.

“Since he enjoys wine so much, we should get him a flask! What do you think, would he like this?” he asked Boney.

“Hmm…” The skeleton hesitantly looked the flask over. “Steel is expensive, Master… and our funds are limited as is. Maybe we could buy him something of lesser quality?”

He pointed at a row of wooden flasks, but Jerry shook his head. “Axehand is a great person and a loyal friend. He never asks for anything. How could we settle for anything that’s not the best?”

“I’m sure Axehand would prefer something that enhances our survival chances over a flask, Master.”

“Nonsense. If we don’t take care of our friends, what are we even doing? Let’s get the flask.”

Boney relented. “As you wish.”

One more item was placed in their sack, which was, by now, overflowing. Ropes, tools, trinkets, even a few sheathed weapons had been picked up by the two of them.

“Can our funds even cover this?” Jerry asked as they headed for the stall.

“I believe so,” replied Boney. “If not, we’ll just leave the least useful stuff behind.”

The sharp-eyed older lady took their sack and emptied it, her eyes scanning the items and mentally adding the costs up. Jerry was impressed.

Only a minute later, the lady—Susan, going by the shop’s name—looked up and declared, “Eighty-nine taels, sirs.”

Boney’s jaw clacked. “With pleasure.”

In the Kingdom of Escarbot, and in the Three Kingdoms in general, bartering was not common practice—you paid the stated price or took your leave. In this case, the stated price was a comfortable eleven taels below their limit.

The mission funds had recovered to a hundred taels after the profit of last night, with the surplus lining Jerry’s pockets. Which, of course, were Boney’s pockets.

“Thank you very much, Susan.” Jerry smiled as Boney handed over the coins, and the older woman smiled back.

“You’re welcome, love. Good luck at the Dead Lands, though you shouldn’t go there at all.”

Their previous conversation hadn’t been hushed—why would it?

“Thank you, but it’s okay.” Jerry’s smile didn’t falter. “Soon, they won’t be so dangerous anymore.”

The older lady nodded but didn’t comment further. She didn’t understand Jerry’s words, of course, but needlessly antagonizing strangers was the sign of a tragically inexperienced merchant.

With the sound of a door opening and closing, Tom and Jerry were in the open again, letting the familiar ruckus of the market wash over them. There were peddlers and merchants, stalls full of fruit, and crude carpets covered in trinkets; there were passersby, customers, beggars, and pickpockets aplenty—yet none would dare challenge the fully-cloaked figure of Boney.

Amongst pickpockets, survival instincts were sharp.

However, though Edge Town was well-populated, and the market street outside had plenty of people scuttling back and forth, it remained despondently poor. The stores had barricaded windows and doors, only showcasing a paltry amount of goods, while most people were simply crossing this street to get somewhere, not to buy things.

Of course, even though Boney was dressed in a cloak, Jerry wasn’t, and many people recognized him from last night. They stepped back or stared in disbelief; murmurs spread, and the crowd parted wherever the two walked, but they didn’t mind.

“What else do we need, Boney?” Jerry asked, looking up at the bright, cloudless sky.

“Lots of luck, Master,” replied the skeleton. “Besides that, we have everything on my list already. We can go back and wait.”

“We have eleven spare taels—that means we got good trades, right? Shouldn’t we reward ourselves?”

Boney looked over—Jerry could feel his blank stare under the hood. “Reward ourselves, Master?”

“Exactly. With a juicy apple, perhaps—it’s such a nice day—or maybe a stroll through the town. Oh, I wish the others could be here too… but that’s okay, we’ll stroll together through the Dead Lands.”

“We can spare an apple’s expense, Master. Feel free.”

“Thanks, Boney!” Jerry rushed over to a nearby stall, ridding himself of one tael.

“Say,” he asked, taking a bite off his self-gift, “we should buy something for you, too. Some milk, perhaps? I know you like it.”

“It’s fine, Master. I don’t need anything.”

“Come on, you’re working so hard to manage the Funny Bone. We must reward you with something.”

“Your well-being is my reward, Master. Speaking of rewards, did you perhaps forget to charge some people yesterday? Our earnings were terribly lower than they should be.”

Jerry hadn’t charged the beggars at all, but Boney didn’t need to know that. He laughed, ignored the skeleton’s pointy stare, and dodged the question. “Come on, don’t be like that. We can get you something small. A jug of milk, perhaps, or a pin to go with your nice gray cap, or⁠—”

“A flower, sirs?”

They halted. A girl had stepped before them, carrying a colorful bouquet in each hand and smiling sweetly. Spring was at its height, making nature don its prettiest dresses, so the flowers were all lush and vibrant.

As for the girl herself, Jerry recognized her; she was the same one he’d seen yesterday in the square, as well as the very second customer of their circus. Going by her fearless approach, she either didn’t recognize them or wasn’t scared at all—probably the latter, as, from this distance, she could see into Boney’s hood.

Jerry took a closer look.

Vivid blue eyes framed by frizzled blonde hair, a soft gaze which oddly felt as if it reached all the way to your soul, and a slim body hugged by a blue, knee-height dress. Her only other accessory was the flask hanging by her waist—probably to water the flowers. She couldn’t be older than twenty-five.

This was a plain-looking girl, going strictly by her features, though there was something about her that made the eye linger. She was beautiful in a very earthly, natural way.

Of course Jerry, being undead himself, had no untoward considerations.

He nodded, turning to the skeleton. “Or maybe a flower, yes. How are your senses, Boney? Can you smell?”

“Faintly, Master. But this is very much an unnecessary expen⁠—”

Before he could finish his words, the girl had stuck a bouquet inside his hood, letting him sniff it. “Isn’t this wonderful, sir?” she asked. “My parents died a month ago, so I’m alone in the world, but flowers still give me some joy!”

Boney cluckled and gently pushed the bouquet away. “I wish you the best of luck, girl, but we are out of taels.”

“No, we aren’t,” Jerry said, gazing over questioningly. “Weren’t we just saying we have ten left?”

Boney’s stare was scalding. The girl smiled, spring arriving to her face as well.

“I am not a beggar, sirs, but a merchant. Consider buying from me—no matter what you’re doing, there is always room for a little beauty in your life.”

“I like that saying!” Jerry smiled back. “Give me a bouquet, then.”

“Master…”

“Come on, Boney, she’s right. Life is meant to be beautiful—if not, you’re doing it wrong!”

“That would be three taels, sir,” the girl said, handing the bouquet over, and Boney reluctantly paid the price. “Thank you very much.”

“Don’t be such a cheapskate, Boney… Taels are to be spent. We made more than enough yesterday, and the count should give us even more tonight.”

As soon as he said that, the girl’s face visibly scrunched into a scowl.

“Oh right, everybody seems to hate him,” Jerry said. “Say, girl, we’re not from around here. Can you tell us about the count? I’ll give you another three taels if you tell us everything.”

Surprise coloring her gaze, she considered it. “Of course, sir.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, barely audible over the market’s din, “Count Decaron is not a good man. He lets us starve and uses the kingdom’s funding to host grand parties for himself and other aristocrats. People say he’s a devil.”

“What!” Jerry’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Absolutely! He forces young women to dance for him and his friends, enjoys rich meals while we starve, and doesn’t even bother ruling this town, relying on the Wall’s status to keep everything in order. Unfortunately, his family has ruled over Edge Town since its founding, and with the heavy military power around here, their iron fist is absolute.”

“That’s terrible!”

“Everything I said is the truth and only the truth, sir.” The girl’s eyes trembled. “We all hate him.”

The necromancer threw an astonished glance at Boney. “Boney, this count is a bad guy! We can’t perform for him!”

Now, it was Boney’s turn to be astonished. “What? Master, that’s not⁠—”

“You heard her! He mistreats all these people; how could we possibly entertain him and be paid by dirty money?”

“But, Master, if we don’t perform, we’ll be in big trouble. How will we get past the Wall?”

“Can’t we find another way?”

“Maybe, but it will take time. Did you forget”—Boney glanced at the girl—“that we are in a hurry?”

Jerry frowned. Right. That Herald Ma-something is after us.

“Well,” he said, “that’s an issue.”

“Exactly.” Boney nodded, lowering his voice further, “This is not our problem, Master. I understand that it makes you feel weird, but sometimes, we have to make concessions. There is nothing else we can do.”

Jerry pursed his lips. “Well, I suddenly don’t like this plan. There must be something.”

“We can return to the tent, Master, and see if Marcus has any ideas.”

“Yeah, I guess we could… Anyway”—he turned back to the flower girl—“thank you very much. Boney, if you’d please.”

The skeleton handed her the money, and the girl, smiling widely, took off. “Have a nice day, sirs!”

“You, too, random flower girl I’ll never see again.”

Gazing at her receding back, Jerry’s eyes naturally flickered to her shoes, finding the worn-down clogs that most everyone wore around here. Her ankles were bruised, however, as if unused to them…

How strange. Is it because her parents died?

Using shoes to glimpse into someone’s life was intriguing, but at the end of the day, Jerry decided that a random girl’s ankles were bound to be unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

Tom and Jerry were left walking through the market, both trying to come up with ways past their current moral predicament. Faces and places zoomed by, and soon, the street widened into the relatively empty town square, save for the circus tent and the towering Manna temple behind it.

A bunch of undead lounged by the circus, most pedestrians giving them a wide berth, while Marcus himself sat on Jerry’s soft chair.

“Oh, hey,” he said as he saw them, standing up, “you’re back early. I was, uh, keeping this warm.”

“Did things go well on your side?” Boney asked, throwing back his hood. Marcus smiled widely.

“Just well? It was perfect! With the count’s permission, we can depart tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”

“That’s great.”

Marcus noticed their neutral looks. “Is everything alright?”

“Well…” Boney glanced at Jerry’s thoughtful face. “We have a small problem to solve. You see⁠—”

“I got it!” Jerry slammed a fist into his open palm, surprising them.

“What did you find, Jerry?”

“A change of plans,” the necromancer said, smiling widely. “Screw the performance. We’re borrowing the count’s airship.”

They froze. Boney spoke first, “…Oh no.”

44

COUNT DECARON

The manor of Count Decaron was placed on the city’s edge, as far away from the Wall as possible. Tall walls surrounded it, painted red, pristinely maintained, and with spikes at the top, while the nearby houses all spoke of riches and authority. Despite its relatively low population count, Edge Town had no lack for nobles.

As soon as the Funny Bone departed from the town square, a procession had already formed behind them. Deep-seated hatred aside, the people were curious about the undead, and watching such a circus enter the count’s manor was bound to be an interesting sight.

Many even believed the count’s guards would attack on sight!

The people stopped one street away as the circus wagon alone, surrounded by strolling zombies and skeletal animals, proceeded. Only Marcus was missing, as he wasn’t needed for now.

What a building… Jerry thought. The entire town was angular and gray, making the red walls of the count’s manor stand out like clown thumbs.

“Curious, isn’t it?” he asked Boney, who sat beside him at the wagon’s front.

“What is, Master?”

“The leader of a military town is an extravagant person.”

“Yes, quite peculiar. Perhaps the red color represents the blood spilled to guard the Wall, while the count’s frivolity is just an act to remind the people of what not to become.”

“Very imaginative, Boney. You’re witty today.”

“Every day, Master.”

By the side, Axehand took a swig off his brand-new flask—the steel one with a wolf’s icon. He grunted in satisfaction as the wine dripped down his ribcage.

The top of a round, circular shape peeked over the building—this was the balloon of the airship, which Jerry already scouted out with the help of Birb. It was impressive, really; he couldn’t wait to take a closer look.

“Halt. Who goes there?”

Four people manned the iron gates, each a hardened veteran of war. They wielded spears, and as the circus cart approached, they gripped them tighter.

“We’re the Funny Bone Circus,” Jerry said. “We were invited by the count.”

“You may pass.”

The spears were withdrawn, and the cart was let through without any sort of check. The undead circus itself was more dangerous than anything they could smuggle.

Thanks to Birb’s scouting, Jerry was familiar with the manor’s layout. It was a square-shaped, two-story residence built around an inner courtyard and surrounded by an outer one, around which stood the red walls. The manor was made entirely of wood, though its roof was covered in orderly red bricks.

It seemed like a tough place to sneak into… but Jerry had a plan.

“Do you think the little ones will be able to handle this, Master?” Boney asked, glancing back at the guards. “The manor looks well-guarded.”

“Of course. Don’t worry, no one will suspect a thing.”

The moment they crossed the manor gates, the circus was assaulted by the sound of music and raucous laughter. A gravel path led to an expansive open space of the outer courtyard, centered around a mermaid-shaped fountain and filled with scantily clad women weaving their bodies in an alluring dance.

The sight alone would have been entrancing if not for the undead—and Jerry—having no sexual urges.

Between carefully trimmed shrubberies, a band of musicians occupied the back of the open space, their fingers plucking the strings like tiptoeing spiders as they recreated some soft, honey-laden melody.

Jerry and his undead entered the courtyard, and the music faltered as several musicians froze. The dancers lost their tempo, ruining the entrancing sight, while cries erupted from a long table at the courtyard’s side. It was loaded with so much food and drinks it seemed about to buckle, and it was occupied by a dozen people dressed in opulent fashion.

The Funny Bone waited for the chaos to settle.

“Quiet!” a strong, energetic voice rang out as a tall man raised his hands. He sat at the head of the table, two beautiful women at his sides, and the tone of his voice implied an authority that his lackadaisical body stance did not. Short dark hair adorned his temples, framing a set of brown eyes, sharp nose, and thin lips, while the soft robes he wore appeared designed for comfort.

He was also drunk, as was every other person at the table, making them hard to calm down.

Count Decaron stood up and banged his hands on the table. “I told you to be quiet!” he yelled, shaking his guests into obedience. “I invited them. They’re a circus.”

“Now, Boney,” Jerry whispered, and the skeleton blew his unfurling red music stick. On cue, the rest of the undead started bashing their own instruments, creating a joyful cacophony which covered the musicians’ decaying ambiance.

Everyone looked over again, eyes struggling to focus.

Maybe it was Boney’s red party hat or his unfurling music stick. Maybe it was the undeads’ apparent inability to achieve anything resembling a consistent tempo, or even how they were obviously just doing their best.

In any case, shortly after the circus music began, the musicians, dancers, and guests all relaxed—or, at least, got over the immediate threat to their lives. Some of the guests—completely hammered—even started laughing, lapsing into nervous, unstoppable chuckles.

“Wait until they hear my jokes,” Boney said over the noise.

“I’m sure they’ll be excited,” Jerry replied, momentarily taking the trumpet off his lips. “Maybe they’ll be the first people to actually laugh!”

“They’re all drunk to the bone. They’d laugh at an execution.”

“I suspect they’d do that anyway. Is the count waving at us?” Jerry asked, waving back.

“I think he’s telling us to go over.”

“Oh. Fine then, let’s go.”

Leaving the wagon behind and the music playing, they approached, finding a table so steeped in spilled wine that it reeked from ten feet away.

“Come closer.” The count laughed, not standing up, as he was too busy getting his shoulders massaged by two of the dancers. “What are your names?”

Up close and personal, Count Decaron seemed like a man who knew himself. His current visage was a bit unwieldy—drunk and surrounded by scantily clad women—but he clearly didn’t mind as he lounged on his chair; a particularly soft chair, Jerry noted.

Moreover, there was a certain devious quality to his gaze as if he constantly searched for accomplices. He was a bad guy who didn’t bother hiding, a person true to his instincts, including the less socially acceptable ones.

These people were usually disliked, and often dangerous, too. Jerry would not underestimate this count.

“We are Jerry and Tom Boney, Sir Count,” Jerry said.

“You look hilarious. Great!” The man laughed, clearly not paying them much mind. “Come, dance for us. Make us laugh.”

“We do not dance, Sir Count,” Jerry pointed out. “We perform.”

“Then do it already.”

Decaron was not a patient man, a trait they somewhat expected at this point. They bowed slightly and headed back to their circus.

“Do you think these women were forced to be here, Boney?” Jerry asked.

“No way, Master. The count can get away with usurping, but nothing like that. These girls are probably paid dancers or prostitutes; people who need the money.”

“Oh.”

“He is still the reason why they need the money.”

“Ohhh.”

The dancers stared fearfully as Jerry and Boney walked through them. Jerry did his best to smile at them—their shaking eyes relaxed somewhat. They were all young girls in their late teens or early twenties—no children, fortunately—and their shaking gazes betrayed their fear as clearly as their tense bodies did.

Jerry could even feel their souls shudder in confusion, all except one. As he looked for that particular one, he found a blonde girl with vivid blue eyes and bruised ankles.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Hi!”

For some reason, she glared back.

“Keep walking, Master,” Boney said. “If we don’t hurry, the count might get angry.”

Jerry turned his gaze away. “Even the flower girl is angry at me.” He pouted. “What did I even do?”

“Maybe getting the count’s attention in any way is bad, Master…”

“Oh yeah. Good point.”

Following the orders of some guards, the dancers scrambled to the sides, leaving a large empty site at the center of the courtyard. Jerry took the stage.

“Hello, everyone! Give a round of applause for the Funny Bone Circus!”

Between half-hearted claps and cheers, the crowd welcomed Jerry, providing a somewhat passable audience for what was coming.

As always, first came the parade, where the undead stepped onto the stage and walked in a circle while offering demonstrations of their later acts. Gradually, the mood turned. From stunned silence to disbelieving intrigue, the dancers, musicians, and guards around the square directed their eyes at the circus.

The count was leaning against the table, watching the performance while enjoying his massage.

As for the count’s guests, the soberest ones watched with morbid curiosity, while the drunkest laughed at the wrong moments and shouted jokes that only they—and their equally drunken friends—found funny.

“Bring us wine!” the count shouted, prompting two dancers to rush over and refill his cup right as Boboar jumped through a flaming ring with Foxy dancing on his back. The colorful ribbons finally caught Decaron’s attention, and with a sound of surprise, he stood upright.

After Boboar and Foxy came Headless—they were experimenting with the order of the acts—juggling his own head along with stones at first and burning torches later. At this, one noble fell off his chair laughing.

“He has no head!” he managed to scream.

“That’s why he’s so stupid!” replied another guest—making no sense—followed by a third one, who commented, “That’s so ridiculous!”

“It’s a circus; what did you expect?” a woman screeched.

They were almost comically obnoxious—drunkenness and distastefulness were a bad combination. At least the count had some reason left.

After Headless came Axehand, who wielded a large trunk through the air—in a more violent manner than usual—and then carved a particularly angular wooden horse. The nobles first proclaimed they could use him as a mule, then mocked him for the sculpture’s ugliness.

The crimson balls of fire in Axehand’s eye sockets didn’t seem to bother them.

The final act was the Billies, who, having no tightrope, acted out their ground performance. The four of them climbed on each other’s shoulders, showcasing various combinations, before culminating in a rhombus-shaped, four-Billy tower, with one being the base, two standing on his shoulders, and a final zombie balancing atop the previous two.

The dancers, musicians, and guards had long been intrigued by the show, all fear forgotten, but only this act made the count and his guests finally appreciate the effort that went into the circus. Amidst jeers and pointy jokes, they gave an uncoordinated round of claps, and the circus people came on stage to lightly bow their heads before retreating.

“I will clap with their bones,” Boney whispered, eyes burning crimson. It wasn’t his own humiliation that infuriated him, but Jerry’s indirect one—and the same applied to all of them.

“They are quite unlikeable…” The necromancer shook his head. “But what can you do? Bad manners aren’t a crime, though I really hope they’ll trip and break their necks at least a little bit.”

“Maybe they will when we steal the airship.”

“Not steal, Boney. That would make us thieves. We’ll borrow it.”

“Of course, Master. Now hurry and give them the gifts so we can leave.”

The whole affair had taken only a few minutes, as all the undead had sped up their acts as much as possible, but even this felt like too long.

“Sir Count,” Jerry called, approaching the table again, “our circus has prepared a gift for your children.”

He dropped a large sack on the ground, letting wooden horses spill out from its mouth. One of the nearby dancers grabbed one and handed it to the count.

“Mmm…” the man said, narrowing his eyes. “What’s this?”

“A wooden horse, your Countship. Very well-made.”

“Oh… Fine,” he replied, unimpressed.

Jerry could sense Axehand’s desire to murder the man, mentally holding him back.

“Thank you for having us, sir,” he said. “Should we take our leave?”

“Of course, of course!” The count waved his hands, already losing interest. “You’ll be let past the Wall tomorrow morning. The entrance guards will pay you for your service.”

Jerry nodded and retreated to where the undead were already packing the wagon. As soon as he arrived, Axehand grunted murderously.

“I know, my friend.” Jerry sighed. “But console yourself. They can only be mean at us, but we’ll borrow their airship. Besides, imagine their reaction when they meet the little ones.”

The musicians restarted playing, the dancers got to dancing, and the Funny Bone’s memory had been wiped clean off the guests’ drunken minds. It was in that manner that they took off, crossing the gates, receiving their hundred taels, and re-entering the town, without music this time. The cart drove to the town square, where they rested beside their large circus tent.

A few hours later, as the moon reached its peak… they returned.

45

AN ARMY OF LITTLE ONES

The Wall of the Damned stretches for one thousand miles, coast to coast, completely cutting off the Dead Lands from the Three Kingdoms. It measures an average width of six feet and an average height of nine, with the most critical sections being appropriately strengthened.

It is undoubtedly the world’s greatest monument; a massive, herculean task which was completed in a single year by the combined and complete efforts of the Three Kingdoms. If anyone ever doubts the limits of human capability, the Wall of the Damned will be there to refute them in perpetuity.

May it hold forever.

- An excerpt from the Atlas of Homerus, Second Edition, found on an unnamed corpse.

Night.

The moon hung high in the sky, dyeing the world silver, and the stars shone like sparkles in an endless void.

In Edge Town, in a cyan room of the count’s manor, two children slept in cradles. Toys surrounded them, along with a little dog which rested in a corner. The wind whooshed outside the shut window, making the shutters rattle in their cases, but the wool attached to the wall muffled the noise.

Carefully placed on a table were two expertly crafted wooden horses, left there by the maidservants for the children to find in the morning.

The night’s silence was broken by a small, almost inaudible crack. Then another, and another. A yellow eye peeked through the splintered wood, looking out of the horse’s belly and into the room beyond. It waited.

A few moments later, tiny scratches came from inside the horses, and wooden flakes landed on the table as the holes were ever so minutely widened. Little by little, they enlarged, until the scratches stopped and two fluffy, tailed forms stepped into the moonlight that poured in from a high window.

Their noses twitched, their eyes flickered, and the mice’s minds were filled with a plethora of impressions.

Humans. Dog. Fear. Hide. Shadows. Water. Food.

Squeaks almost escaped their little snouts before the master’s will clamped down. They remained silent.

Master. Love. Respect. Obey.

Their snouts wiggled as they thought. Their minds were small—as were their bodies—and comprehending the master’s intentions took time. Thankfully, the master was patient, and he loved them as they loved him.

The mice waited. A few moments later, a new concept surfaced in their minds, one that was foreign and more complex than anything they had ever considered before.

Plan…?

Images swept through their minds—doors and keys, and humans who had to be dealt with in very specific and unnatural ways—and all these names, that they only knew because their master told them.

They could not understand.

Must. Try. Master!

Before their little minds could fry themselves, the master’s will transformed. They could feel it change and shift, morphing from puzzlement to good-natured love. The master understood—he did not blame them. He would help.

One of the mice felt a hint of a presence in its mind, a presence so abysmally humongous that even this fragment of its attention was almost enough to overwhelm the little creature. It was Master—a god—and to host him in its mind was an honor the little mouse could never have hoped for.

Endless pride filled its tiny, rapidly beating heart, and the other mouse did not feel envy, for how could it dare judge the master?

Through the mouse, the master was with them, and the orders changed. They saw the tall block of wood before them, and they saw themselves quietly slipping under it.

Yes. That, they could do.

The mice scampered down the long wooden legs and reached the floor below. As soon as they looked at the table again, their little hearts seized in their chests.

Dog. Run. Run.

Their bodies froze—but the master, in his infinite wisdom, told them not to worry, and so they went against every fiber of their being, because the master was far more important than the totality of their existence.

Eight feet tapped against the floor as the mice circled the dog from afar, reaching the door behind it. Contrary to their expectations, the dog did not wake up by their smell. The master had been right—not that they ever doubted him.

How could they know that this dog, domesticated and coddled as it was, had long abandoned standing guard?

The mice ducked and slipped under the tall wood, finding themselves in the large empty that was inside; the master informed them it was called a ‘corridor.’ More smells invaded their noses.

Humans. Many. Danger. Food. Bad.

The master’s will beckoned them forward again, disregarding these thoughts, and they would follow it forever. Instinct told them to stick to where floor met wall, and so they did. They walked.

More mice appeared from under another door. They were many, and they smelled of the master’s will as well.

Friends. Safe. Follow. Eat.

Explore.

The master’s will filled their thoughts, once again speaking of a concept larger than they could understand. They tightened their paws in pain. The master recoiled, worried of hurting them. He did not want that. He said he was wrong, but how could gods be wrong?

Food, he commanded, and this time, they understood. Much food.

The mice split up, following the walls to different endless paths, but some remained, for they had received a different order. The master’s will beckoned again, and they followed it down a specific trail until even more smells reached their noses.

Green. Safe. Tickle.

They slipped under a door and into the open world they called home, finding the silver light which called to them from above—not as much as the master’s will, of course. It made them want to eat and gave them energy.

The master was closer now, they could feel it. His will touched them again, imprinting an image into their eyes—two humans, sleeping. The mice advanced. The master was close now, just behind another door, and the mice shivered in anticipation at finally completing their life’s purpose.

However, the master did not command them to go to him. His will filled their minds and eyes, and they saw something on the sleeping humans shine. They grabbed the ring—Cold. Hard. Bad—and pulled, but they could not move it.

Their little hearts were filled with sadness. The master had commanded, but they could not follow. They had betrayed the master.

From the master’s will, new emotions blew through them.

Happy. Full.

The mice recovered; their master, in all his infinite wisdom, understood that they were small, and he would be patient. He accepted them as they were—and for that, their hearts were full as if they’d eaten much cheese.

More instructions came, slowly, and small parts of the ring glowed in the mice’s eyes. They did not understand the master’s intentions, but for him, they would try their best until the end of time.

The two mice nibbled on the ring and the glowing objects, biting where the master told them and pulling when the master told them. It was difficult, and they did not understand. Still, they tried. The silver light moved as time went by, but the mice did not mind.

Sounds came from where the master was, sounds they couldn’t understand but felt they should fear.

“Why is he taking so long?”

“Because Master never finishes early.”

“Tsk. If the lock wasn’t so thick, I would have picked it ten times already.”

These sounds were not their master, so they ignored them.

Eventually, something happened. The mice had pulled what they could not pull, and they felt their master’s approval through his will, and they were even happier than if they’d found food!

They had done it! They helped the master!

Happy! Happy! Happy!

The two mice ran in circles around each other, and the master let them celebrate before speaking again.

Come.

Beyond ecstatic, the mice held what they should hold—the ring—and slipped under the door, finding a human and other weird creatures that were friends, kin. They served the same master.

Standing still before a human terrified them, but they did not even consider that, for they could see their master hanging in the air behind a weird friend-thing. Their minds were filled with worship. They had succeeded!

Master!

“Finally,” Marcus groaned quietly. “Did it have to take one bloody hour?”

Boney was annoyed. If he had brows, he would have creased them. “If you tried controlling mice,” he replied, “you couldn’t even get them past the door.”

“Sure I could. In any case, I didn’t mean to complain; they’re pretty useful. Can you get the keys, please?”

“Can’t you?”

“I would rather not.”

Boney leaned down and gently plucked the keys from the two mice, watching them all the while.

He was always impressed by the degree of kinship he felt to Master’s other undead, even if they were something small and stupid, like mice.

I guess the master’s will fills our bones and makes us friends, he mused, entertaining himself with puns that Marcus wouldn’t laugh at. Then again…

“Do these little mice chill you to the bone?” he asked, letting out a cluckle. Marcus did not reply, but Axehand grunted in amusement as he took a swig of wine, and Headless moved his head up and down—these two always supported his jokes. “You are outnumbered, Marcus. Prepare to suffer.”

“Please kill me.”

“Don’t be spineless. Endure the torture.”

He groaned. Boney cluckled.

“Can we please hurry?” Jerry asked from where he was strapped to Axehand’s back, not opening his eyes. “The little ones are killing me.”

“I didn’t see you hurry before,” Marcus retorted as Boney unlocked the door.

After deciding to borrow the count’s airship, the Eye of the Sky, their plan was simple. Step one, have Foxy hunt down mice in the city. Step two, have Axehand carve empty wooden horses around the zombie mice. Step three, perform for the count and gift them the zombie-filled horses so the mice could come out at night.

It was the perfect plan. After all, who would suspect a gifted wooden horse to contain invaders? What a novel, foolproof idea!

Step four, infiltrate, find the airship, have Marcus make it work, and borrow it. Very easy.

They were currently hidden inside an alcove next to the count’s manor, having approached as stealthily as possible—which was a tall task as they were carrying a bunch of stuff.

The four Billies carried the heavenly soft chair, the Saint Hugh’s Bones, a bag of shoes, and another bag filled with supplies. Marcus carried his own equipment, Headless his head, and Boney several items which could be useful in different situations. Boboar and Foxy were just strolling along, and Axehand had his axe-hands free and ready to act at a moment’s notice.

After reaching the alcove, Jerry had called out to the two guards and quickly used his magic to knock them out through the large iron door, then focused his mind on controlling the two dozen zombie mice—a feat which, according to him, was a lot tougher than he anticipated, so he’d been strapped to Axehand’s back to devote his full attention to the task.

Meanwhile, Birb was flying in circles above, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious.

“We’re in,” Boney said, whispering. “Are you ready?”

“We were unborn ready,” Marcus replied with a stupid smirk.

“Let’s go.”

Taking a deep breath, Boney pushed the iron door open, and they were in.

Birb flew in circles high in the air, observing the situation below. If it noticed anything suspicious—as suspicious as its bird mind could comprehend—it would notify Master immediately.

Unfortunately for Birb, as its gaze was directed downward, it could not see that another undead bird flew above it, watching with wicked eyes.

46

MARCUS FINDS HEAVEN

With a creak that felt ear-scratching—but was really rather quiet—the iron door swung open, revealing the manor’s outer courtyard.

Trees and bushes lined the gravel paths, shining under the silver moonlight. The silence was deafening, with only the muffled sounds of the town disturbing the manor’s serenity. That, and the bunch of undead who carried stuff through the courtyard as if moving houses. Marcus watched them from behind and could barely suppress his growing sense of disbelief.

A chair, a sack of shoes, a toolbox, backpacks… Oh, Manna, why did I pick the single weirdest necromancer?

He rubbed his nose, forcing himself to focus. They had scouts on the ground and in the sky, and they’d already grasped the layout of this place, as well as the guards’ locations.

There weren’t many guards—six in total, with two already knocked out by Jerry’s soul magic. As for the manor’s occupants, most were drunkenly asleep and wouldn’t wake up by anything short of a shout in their ears.

Marcus had snuck into many places in his life, be it a maiden’s quarters or an ancient tomb, and this was one of his easiest infiltrations yet. That’s the only reason why they could even afford to carry Jerry’s chair, to which the necromancer seemed quite fixated for some reason.

He’s just like that tribe leader in the archipelago. Take one little pearl away and he starts throwing javelins at your back… Thank Manna he was drunk.

Marcus shook his head, this really wasn’t the time to reminisce. Everyone else had already crossed into the courtyard.

As stealthily as possible, the treasure hunter followed, darting from bush to bush as he made a beeline for the manor’s entrance, where the shadows fell from above and shielded them from all peering eyes. The front door had already been opened—they would go in with style.

“Took you a while,” Boney said. “Are your old bones rusting already?”

“I’m only forty-two, you numbskull. Just keep this circus in order, and I’ll handle myself.”

“Whatever you say.” Boney made that chuckling, jaw clacking sound which—for the love of Manna—he called cluckling.

Marcus looked around. They were in a small room—an antechamber—that could barely fit them all, what with the bulky Billies and Axehand. Ahead, the corridor split to the left and right, each side leading to different sections of the large manor.

Due to Birb’s scouting from above, they knew that the manor was built around an inner courtyard in which the airship rested. All paths led there, obviously, but they needed to find the exit closest to the airship’s ramp, which was already lowered to make maintenance easier. Nobody expected airship thieves.

They already knew the ramp was on the east side—Manna bless Birb—but the mice had to scout the place and make sure there were no patrolling guards, sleepwalkers, or manor staff walking around.

The necromancer opened his mouth, his eyes still closed.

“Both are safe,” he said.

“Are you sure?” asked Marcus.

“About the right path, yes. About the left one, not at all—it includes the kitchen, and I struggle to get the mice through there. Too much cheese.”

The treasure hunter blinked. “Are you serious?”

“Very. If I push their small minds too far, they will break.”

“Oh, Manna…”

“We only care about the right path anyway; that’s where the ramp is,” Boney said. “Let’s go. An airship is waiting.”

“Wait, wait,” Marcus cut in, turning to Jerry. “I have an important question, Jerry. Have you discovered the treasury?”

“The treasury? It’s on the second floor, by the stairs to our left. Why?”

“I think we should visit that, too. We could always use extra funds, and leaving teals in this asshole’s hands wouldn’t sit right with me.”

“I see. You want to borrow the count’s money.”

“You could put it that way.”

“That’s too risky,” Boney said. “We need to hurry, so let’s just go to the airship and fly away. Taels will be useless in the Dead Lands.”

“But useful when we return,” Marcus said. “Money can do a lot of things, Boney. If you don’t take everything you can, you’ll soon find yourself poor and starving, and that isn’t a fun experience. Trust me.”

“But I cannot starve,” the skeleton replied, drawing a chuckle from Jerry, who said, “Actually, you know what? I think I have a perfect use for that money. Let’s borrow it.”

“Oh?” Marcus frowned. “What kind of use?”

“Not telling.”

“That scares me.”

“This could put you in danger, Master,” Boney insisted, but Jerry only shook his head.

“Marcus, take Foxy with you,” he said. “She can protect you. I’ll send a few mice your way as well.”

“Thanks, Jerry. So, left?”

“Left. Up the stairs, turn left again, and follow the mice. They’ll know the way.”

“Great. Come on, Foxy, let’s go. Money is waiting!”

The skeletal fox glanced in Jerry’s direction, then slowly moved to stand beside Marcus. “We’re off,” he said. The two of them entered the corridor, turned left, and disappeared from sight.

Marcus found himself in the dark, illuminated only by what little dregs of light found their way down the staircase. Fortunately, he was familiar with dark places, so he simply waited for his eyes to adjust before proceeding.

“Come, Foxy,” he whispered. Suddenly, he was on edge. He was in the count’s manor, a place where he absolutely wasn’t supposed to be. If he was captured, there would be no excuses, no questions—he would be executed on the spot.

As if a veil had been lifted from his eyes, he realized how nonsensical this idea was. They had no need to do this; they could just wait until morning and leave with the count’s blessings, but Jerry wanted the damn airship. And yes, maybe the count hoarded public funds, but Marcus wouldn’t normally risk himself for such plain moral reasons.

So, why was he here?

Excellent question, he thought. I wish I knew.

Had Jerry’s naive enthusiasm infected him? Had he gotten arrogant after discovering the clue to Dorman’s treasure, or was he simply indulging in the urge to have an airship?

Marcus was unsure, but he knew one thing. He was having fun.

This reminds me of the temple of Sar’dul… he mused, grinning despite his fear. In danger, he felt alive—and the promise of easy profit gave his feet wings. He was twenty-one again.

A hint of movement drew his gaze to the far end of the corridor. Mice, a dozen of them—they were here to protect him, too, not just lead the way.

Ugh.

Marcus did not like mice—he’d almost died to them twice—but for now, he could stand them.

“Lead the way, little ones,” he whispered, and the mice ran a circle around him—ugh—before sprinting off. He rushed to follow them while remaining quiet. The manor’s silence felt pregnant with danger now, and to break it would mean death… or so he feared.

Unconsciously, his breath had gotten deep and fast—soundless still—while Marcus remained a fleeting shadow. As was Foxy by his side, despite her bone paws—those red shoes really did wonders. Shoemakers were grossly underestimated.

The stone floor rolled under their feet as they advanced, following the snaking route that the mice led. They passed a few doors, climbed the stairs, turned to the right, and kept going. This manor was too large for just the count’s family, but many nobles and staff lived here as well.

Eventually, the scenery changed. The doors were sparse and made of iron now, and everything was more angular, lending this part of the manor a professional feel instead of the previous homely one.

Marcus paused.

Hmm. Iron means money. We’re getting close.

The mice squeaked and scratched against a door. Marcus grinned. He grabbed the handle and turned, finding it locked.

Bingo.

Foxy growled by his side. The door was locked, and they had no keys; they could not enter.

However, Marcus was a treasure hunter—and in his line of work, locks were aplenty.

“Sit back, girl,” he whispered, kneeling on the ground, “and let daddy get to work.”

He removed his backpack—a big sack fastened on his back with leather strips—and retrieved a pair of sewing needles, long like his fingers and thin enough for their tips to glint. In front of the skeletal fox’s surprised eyes, and without wasting any time, Marcus got to work.

Treasure hunting was a tough endeavor. The dangers and difficulties were many and varied, meaning that a good treasure hunter should be able to deal with all sorts of inconveniences. They should possess various skills for all sorts of situations and scenarios.

Marcus wasn’t a good treasure hunter—he was the best.

Lockpicking, deception, persuasion, analytical thinking, spatial awareness, confidence, calmness in the face of danger, driving all sorts of contraptions, animal riding, pickpocketing, running, climbing…

The list was endless. In the many years of chasing his luck, Marcus had come across a large spectrum of skills from all walks of life, and his talent lay in learning new things. He wasn’t a master at anything, not really, but he could do everything at a decent level.

Jack of all, master of none, as well as money, luck, and perseverance. That’s how one became a successful treasure hunter.

A sweet click resounded in Marcus’s ears as the lock gave way. He was in. His trembling hand grabbed the door handle again, turning it, pulling the door open…

And the world fell away. His heart thumped in his ears. His eyes stared at all the coffers simultaneously, each filled with coins to the brim.

Taels… His eyes shone golden. So many taels!

Marcus was frozen. A moment later, he stared at Foxy.

“Foxy… we’re rich, girl. Rich!”

Resisting the urge to squeal in happiness, he mutedly raised his hands at the air and waved them around. Foxy gave him a suspicious look, and then, not quite understanding, did a small tippity-dance of victory.

A shutter’s rattle pulled Marcus out of his reverie.

“Quick, girl, quick! We must get all these to the airship!”

There weren’t just coffers in the room; there were also closed chests, artifacts, jewels, documents, jars on shelves, and books in cases—some were more precious than the coffers, admittedly, but the luster of coin was tough to beat. As for Marcus… at this moment, he didn’t want to think and judge values—he wanted to take the coins, own them, and let them captivate him.

“Quick, quick! Take all you can!”

The various supplies which made up the previous contents of Marcus’s backpack were already on the floor as he kneeled by the coffers and poured handful after handful of money into it—dozens of coins at a time—stretching the cloth so much he feared it might break. By the time he was done, there were a few thousand inside; a small fortune.

Heavy-hearted, he pulled on the cord and sealed it before placing it on his back—which could also break by the weight, but some risks were worth taking.

Foxy held a smaller sack of money in her mouth, but there were many coins left, and the thought of leaving these poor taels alone made Marcus’s heart bleed. He fell to the ground and brought his face close to a confused mouse’s, forgetting his fear as he called out, “Jerry! Jerry! Are you here? Speak to me, Manna-dammit!”

The mouse’s confusion intensified, then it jumped in place.

“Okay, you’re there. I need you to gather every single mouse you don’t need, Jerry, and send them here. This is of utmost importance!”

The mouse tilted its head.

“Have them grab taels and follow us,” Marcus hissed. “We must take all we can! We can’t leave them here, all alone and sad!”

The mouse stayed still. He waited. When it shrugged, Marcus jumped back up. “Great!” he exclaimed, barely remembering to keep his voice low. “Come on, guys, let’s go! All of you, grab a coin and follow me!”

They did; and soon, a peculiar line of creatures crossed the manor. At the front was a forty-two-year-old man groaning under his backpack’s weight, followed by a skeletal fox who munched on a bag of money. Finally, there came a dozen mice, one behind the other, each carrying a shiny bronze coin.

In the dark, they seemed like a line of walking taels, and Marcus was very proud of that.

47

THE EYE OF THE SKY

Boney crossed the manor, following after Master’s mice—to be exact, he was following Boboar, who was following Billies One and Two, who were following Master’s mice. After Boney came Axehand, with the master strapped on his back, while Headless and the final two Billies were bringing up the rear.

They were… Well, they were many. An entire circus was not the best candidate for an infiltration, but they weren’t going to leave anyone behind, and besides, they had Master’s expertly crafted shoes—with those, even Boney’s skeletal feet touched the floor as softly and soundlessly as clouds.

Really, the master was too kind.

A mental ripple passed through the undead, and they halted at once. The master had spoken, told them to stop, and they obeyed. Only the mice kept going, reaching a moonlit opening on the left wall and peeking through.

It led to the inner courtyard, where their prize awaited—the airship, the Eye of the Sky. Master’s words rang out from behind Boney, “There is a guard, and he’s way too far for Soul Severing… What should we do?”

“We can make a run for it, Master,” Boney whispered, then gazed behind Master, where Billy Three struggled to carry the heavenly soft chair—Master’s most prized possession. “Then again, maybe we shouldn’t. If something happens to the chair…”

“You’re right, we can’t risk that,” Master replied seriously, still not opening his eyes, as he needed to maintain control over the mice.

“Maybe Axehand can rush the guard, Master.”

Axehand gave a confident grunt. He could easily take care of one pesky human guard.

“Maybe, but we’ll have to be careful. These people are innocent, so we should harm them as little as skeletally possible—and we should also be fast enough that they can’t make any sound. These ones may be weak, but if people understand what’s happening, the town’s guards will flood in at a moment’s notice—and there are many strong people around.”

Boney shivered, thinking back to Master’s description of the nature spirit that fought a death knight to a standstill. Axehand might be able to handle her, but there could be more, and in any case, the rest of the undead—and Master!—would probably die in the ensuing onslaught.

“In hindsight, that’s too dangerous, Master.” Boney clenched his jaw. He raised a hand to scratch his gray cap, the one that Master made so long ago—he loved that cap, though lately, he often wore the party hat for practical reasons. “Have we reached a dead end?”

“Of course not, Boney. At worst, we’ll just have to take a small risk. Maybe we can wait for Marcus to—oh! They just found something. Wait, let me check.”

Master fell silent. A few moments later, he chuckled.

“A treasure hunter indeed,” he whispered. “It’s a good thing we need that money.”

“Why do we need it, really, Master? I thought taels were useless in the Dead Lands.”

“Well, I plan to⁠—”

A faint clanking interrupted them. Boney turned around so fast his waist cracked, while the mice by the corner were jumping and running around each other in panic.

“Hey, what’s⁠—”

A guard rounded the corner, and his eyes went wide. “Aw, hell no…”

George had really been looking forward to a quiet night in the count’s manor. No necromancers, no nature spirits, no troublemakers or pickpockets. Only him and a long, quiet night on the deck of the old airship.

When he saw a mouse peek through an entrance of the courtyard—George always had good eyes—he thought it was an opportunity to alleviate some boredom. Therefore, he stood up, said, “Come here, you little thief,” and casually walked to the opening. The mouse retreated. George chuckled.

“Hey now, what’s the⁠—”

He stepped past the threshold and into the darkness. He looked to the right, and the moment his eyes adjusted, he came face-to-face with the entire undead circus. He froze.

“Aw, hell no…”

Time slowed down as he took in everything. There was a normal-looking skeleton staring at him alongside its bulkier brother, with the necromancer sleeping strapped to the latter’s back—for some reason.

There was a zombie holding its head at chest-level, eyes gawking, and mouth formed into an ‘o,’ and there were four more zombies carrying furniture—or rather, one of them was carrying a chair, another a toolkit, a third carried a big sack, and the fourth what looked like random tools. There was even a skeletal boar thrown in the mix.

These all take time to describe, but George noticed them instantly.

His first reaction was to freeze. The second was to curse his luck which just wouldn’t give him a break. The third was to scream, because he saw the lumbering brute of a skeleton, the one with axes for hands, charge him.

Unfortunately, no sound left George’s mouth, for he was already drowning.

Fiona worked as a maid in the count’s manor. Everything was normal until she opened her bedroom’s door to visit the outhouse and came face-to-face with an army of coin-carrying mice. Leading them was a wide-eyed man with a really heavy sack.

Fiona froze. So did the man.

Then, in a voice that should be reassuring but only came across as suspicious, he said, “Don’t worry; I’m here on official business. I’m looking for a… circus permit.”

They stared at each other. The man sighed. “Okay, I understand you’re going to scream now, but at least nobody heard that.”

The only thing louder than Fiona’s scream was the colossal bang which shook the entire manor, making Fiona fall on her butt.

The man shouted, “Shit! Run, boys! For the money!”

The undead stared at the guard who stared at them. For a moment, everyone remained completely still, before Axehand exploded into motion. His form blurred in Boney’s vision, but he wouldn’t make it in time, as the guard had already opened his mouth to scream…

A tendril of water slapped the guard from behind, unraveling in place to surround his head. The guard’s obvious terror intensified as a small burst of distorted sound left the bubble, and where he expected air, water came to fill his lungs. He instinctively held his breath and fell to the ground with a clang, manically trying to push the water away from his face.

Axehand paused. Boney looked around.

This wasn’t their doing.

“Took you long enough.”

A form stepped out from across the opening, entering the light. She had frizzled blonde hair and vivid blue eyes, while she wore a knee-length blue dress with painted flowers and a wooden flask strapped to her waist. It was a striking change from the provocative dancer’s attire they’d last seen her in.

Boney recognized her at once. She was the flower girl, and they had also met her yesterday, when she danced for the count.

“You,” he said.

“Boney,” Master said, “you handle this, please.”

The skeleton could feel the strain in his master’s voice. The shock from seeing the guard had caused a lapse in his concentration, and regaining control of the mice would need his full attention.

“Yes, me,” the girl replied, strolling past the struggling guard and stopping before Axehand’s menacing form without a care in the world.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Boney asked.

“I was waiting for you. You’re going to steal the airship—I want in.”

“In?”

“Yes. Take me with you.”

“We’re going to the Dead Lands!” Boney protested, his jaw clacking.

“I know.”

“Then why?”

“Because I want to escape.”

“Escape what? Life?”

“None of your business.”

Boney’s jaw moved without sound as he considered this girl, who, against all odds, had appeared here.

“You’re a hydromancer,” he said.

“Yes. Can we please discuss this later? They’ll come after us anytime now.”

“Are you two going to ignore the drowning person?” Master’s voice came from behind Boney, and his mind was instantly filled with shame. The master had assigned him a job, and he’d failed already.

“Stop that,” Boney said. “These people are innocent. We don’t want to harm them.”

She raised a brow. “They’d kill us if they could.”

“But we won’t.”

“He will shout.”

“Not if Axehand slaps him fast enough.”

The girl did not comment further. The water bubble dissipated, flowing back into the flask she carried and letting the red-eyed guard cough out one desperate, grateful mouthful of water before the flat side of Axehand’s axe-hand knocked him out cold.

“There,” Boney said, “job done.”

“Can we go steal the airship, please?” the girl said.

“Hold on a second.” Boney brought his hands to his hips, finally catching up to the situation. “First of all, we aren’t stealing it, we’re borrowing it. Master’s words. And second, who the hell are you?”

“I’m Laura,” she replied simply.

Boney waited for the rest of her answer. It never came. “That was not my question.”

“What more do you want to know? I’m a hydromancer who wants to escape to the Dead Lands, and I’m desperate enough to hide here on my own while hoping for an undead circus to come pick me up. Is that not enough?”

“But you’re a flower girl. And a dancer. And where’s your blue feather?”

“I’m incognito, obviously.”

“Why?”

Laura smiled. “I’m going to the airship, skeleton. Feel free to follow.”

She turned around, letting her dress swivel in the night wind as she stepped past the opening. Speechless, Boney turned to Axehand—Axehand’s back, specifically.

“Master!” he said. “What should we do?”

“Let’s take her along,” came the reply. “The more the merrier, and I can feel she’s not a bad person.”

“She would drown a man to death without batting an eye.”

“Because she’s scared. I can sense her soul, Boney—it’s way more terrified than she lets show, but pure.”

Cursing, the skeleton rushed after her, and all the undead followed. The guard from before now lay unconscious behind them.

Boney exited the opening, finding himself in the manor’s inner courtyard. Being surrounded by windows was a sight, but decoration-wise, this place was similar to the outer courtyard, with the glaring exception of a large airship placed right in the middle of everything.

This was the first time Boney ever saw an airship. It resembled a sixty-foot-long caravel—a double-decked wooden ship—except its sails were placed at the far back and front of the ship, and between them loomed a massive, round cloth balloon attached to the deck through slim steel columns. The ship was brown, though the paint was flaking off after years in the wind and rain, while the balloon was red.

All in all, this was an impressive contraption, but Boney only gawked for a split-second before rushing at the ramp that led to its deck.

“I’m Boney,” he said, catching up to the girl, “not Skeleton.”

“Good for you. Now come; you know how to fly this thing, right? What do we do?”

Boney stared at Laura. Laura stared at Boney.

“You do know how to fly this, right?” she asked.

“I… know someone who does.”

“Oh, Hydra! Why would you try to steal an airship without knowing how to use it?”

Shouts came from all around, along with the sound of boots stomping on stone. They’d been noticed—there were too many windows, after all.

“I told you, we have someone who does! It’s just not me!”

“Well, where are they? We’re in a hurry if you didn’t notice.”

“He’s on the way!”

“By Hydra!” Laura cursed again, turning to the Billies. “Drop your stuff and come with me, all of you. There should be barrels below deck; we need to quickly get them up here.”

“We don’t take orders from you,” Boney cut in.

“You do if you want to live—or whatever you undead do. Hurry, we’re running out of time.”

Boney tried to frown. “Now, listen here, you bi⁠—”

An explosion rang out from beyond the manor, followed by a series of screams. Everyone looked over. Boney looked back at Laura.

“You know what? On second thought, I’d be happy to⁠—”

Another explosion resounded, this time much closer. A part of the manor’s walls exploded, sending wood flying everywhere as a small, debris-filled tunnel was formed between the inner courtyard and the outer one. The entire building groaned as three figures walked out of the new opening.

One was an impossibly tall, fat, one-eyed humanoid wielding a large iron club. Another was an oily-haired, dark-eyed, barefooted man. And the third was a person with a horizontal scar across his forehead and a wicked smile on his lips, with sharp blue eyes that instantly locked onto their still forms.

Jerry’s eyes snapped open.

“Jericho!” he exclaimed.

“Maccain,” said the scarred man, announcing himself, “and you’re coming with me.”

48

A LUMBERJACK’S RESOLVE

Maccain and his two undead stood in the rubble, confidently facing the Funny Bone. Screams rang from all around as window shutters opened and closed. Fast approaching boots stomped on stone and wood.

Jerry forwent his control of the mice and unstrapped himself from Axehand’s back, stepping on the deck with his own two feet. The plan had already failed; they’d been revealed, and not just that, but a terrifying opponent showed up out of nowhere, too.

This is ridiculous… I just poked some fun, and he actually chased us all the way here? Come on!

The situation looked grim; Jericho, by himself, was an opponent they’d barely been able to match before, and now he was flanked by several powerful allies.

“Say,” Jerry asked, staring at Jericho, “weren’t you dead?”

“He was,” replied Maccain, a Herald of the Wizard Order, “but now he’s mine.”

“I suppose he also can’t speak for himself.”

“He does the killing; I do the talking.”

“I see.” Jerry pursed his lips. “And I don’t suppose that big fellow is here to help us carry the furniture either?”

The cyclops grinned, revealing a row of oversized, sharp teeth. He slapped his greatclub on an open palm—a single blow could probably tear the airship apart, let alone them.

“Yeah, thought so.” Jerry frowned. “Come on, man, it was just a bird. How much free time do you have?”

“It was my minion, and you destroyed it. That was an insult to my honor.”

“An innocent bit of fun.”

Maccain frowned. “This is not about you, necromancer. De-animate your undead and surrender. Then, we can talk.”

“That’s not happening,” Jerry answered. “If I de-animate them, they will lose all their memories.”

“So?”

“So, that’s not happening. They’re my friends; I don’t want them to die.”

“Friends?” Maccain’s face darkened, the skin tightening around the scar on his forehead. “You’re kidding.”

“Not at all.”

“Stop repeating that delusional drivel and go find some real friends before calling your slaves that. Undead are tools; nothing more and nothing less.”

Jerry crossed his arms. “I beg to differ.”

“You’ll beg, all right. Gorgon, Jericho; get them.”

Jericho and the cyclops stepped forward, their dark eyes shining with a hint of crimson. They stared like wolves at sheep. Both possessed clearly superhuman strength, and each of the two, by himself, could probably annihilate them all—except for one skeleton.

A heavy form landed before the two zombies, barely reaching up to their shoulders. Jerry’s breath caught in his throat. “Get the ship started, now!” he hissed at Boney, who rushed below deck.

Gorgon and Jericho gazed with puzzlement at the skeleton who’d stepped up. A confident grunt burst at their faces—and, at its source, Axehand faced down these two opponents, crimson flames burning bright in his eye sockets. One axe-hand was aimed at each of them, and his intentions were clear—he would take them both by himself.

Jericho’s eyes narrowed. “Laughable.”

“Is that your death knight? It’s decent.” Maccain laughed. “Too bad I have two.”

Facing their mockery, Axehand only stood there, skull raised high and ready to fight.

The cyclops chuckled—a predatory, guttural sound—and raised his Axehand-sized greatclub. He considered Axehand a toy; crimson flames lit up his eyes, and his face darkened, producing a predator of nightmare. He stepped forward.

Crimson flames lit up in Jericho’s eyes as well. He bent his knees and stretched his hands out, each able to snap a normal person in half like a twig. With a heavy breath, he said, “I’ve been looking forward to this. I will tear you apart as you did to my brother.”

Facing the two oversized opponents, Axehand did not reveal the slightest hint of fear. With a grunt that meant, “bring it,” he crossed his axe-hands in front of his chest, entering a battle stance. The wind turned chilly, then, and the stars just a bit darker.

Jerry gulped. Axehand couldn’t even handle Jericho—now, he wanted to face them both at once? It was suicide!

“Come on,” he told the Herald, “you’d go this far over some jest?”

Maccain chuckled as he shook his head. The two giants, each towering far above Axehand, attacked together.

Axehand scraped his axe-hands against each other. He could feel it already—the maniacal, intense state of war. How everything fell away and only the enemy remained.

At heart, all lumberjacks were warriors. Facing two enemies at once, each superior to himself, Axehand couldn’t help but grin in exhilaration, his bone jaw creaking as he forced it into shape. They seemed surprised, but not intimidated. He did not care.

People spoke all around but Axehand ignored them. He only had two purposes in life—slay the master’s enemies and cut down trees—and he was all out of trees. Crimson flames shining, his entire body churned like a furnace as he charged forward at speeds a normal human could never achieve.

Jericho—the earth spirit—grinned back.

“Come, Lom,” he said. “Let’s end this.”

Axehand’s name wasn’t Lom. It hadn’t been for a long time.

He charged into Jericho with great momentum, bringing his axes sideways as if on a tree—and roots rose from the ground, blocking Axehand’s swings and getting chopped apart in midair.

The moment the roots gave way, a massive fist appeared behind them, slamming into Axehand’s shoulder—that he raised to block—and throwing him a few feet back. The skeleton grinned. This was nothing.

In fact, a surge of elation crept up Axehand’s spine; at the moment of impact, he’d felt it—Jericho’s power wasn’t infinite this time. The earth, his mother, had abandoned him. Axehand could finally take him on.

Or so he thought.

A whoosh in his ears was the only warning. Axehand jumped with the flow, allowing the massive greatclub to smash into him. It wasn’t a serious attack; it was made off-hand, the same way a human doesn’t use all their strength to slap away a fly.

And yet, that disinterested strike was enough to launch Axehand across the courtyard and through two manor walls, landing inside the room of a terrified maid. She screamed; he grunted.

Some part of him cracked, but he didn’t mind. He stood back up, shedding planks and rubble off his body as he rushed back to the courtyard. The moment he stepped in it, the nature spirits regarded him anew, and Axehand felt the cyclops’s fighting spirit awaken.

In his eyes, Axehand was no longer a fly; having endured one hit, he was now a real enemy, a worthy challenger. The cyclops turned his whole body toward the skeleton, and his disinterest was replaced with knuckle-whitening fervor and a manic grin of flat, bulky teeth. Jericho frowned, narrowing his eyes at Axehand.

“Sturdy,” he commented. “Next time, I’ll make sure you stay down.”

Axehand had been blown away after trying his hardest, and the enemies were just getting started—he was vastly underpowered but did not care. He was a lumberjack, and no matter how sturdy the trees, he would take them down.

A voice came in his soul. The master ordered him to be careful, to protect himself first, but Axehand disregarded the order. He grunted a challenge. The two giants regarded him evenly, and then all three of them rushed at each other.

Around them, everyone else was fighting, too. Things were heating up, but nobody dared to disturb Axehand’s battle, and he didn’t bother with them either.

Thick roots speared out of the ground, seeking to entrap or pierce him, but Axehand was a menace, cutting them down in their paths or dodging them altogether. His movements were simple and powered by brute force, but they were fast, too. Despite his considerable bulk, he did not lack nimbleness—as no lumberjack should.

The cyclops did lack it. His club strikes were cataclysmic in force, but they were slow and telegraphed, allowing Axehand to weave through them like falling timber. An axe-hand cleaved the cyclops’s side, drawing a thick line of congealed blood, but the damage was minimal.

Axehand grunted.

Spears rose from all around him, more than before, twisting and snaking up his limbs. He shook them apart—but to do so, he stood still, and that moment was all the cyclops needed. The club found Axehand in the ribs and catapulted him away with far greater strength than before, tearing the count’s manor another hole and tossing Axehand all the way to the outer courtyard.

Screams came from all around, along with the sound of creaking wood and groaning stone. Axehand stood up from the mermaid-shaped fountain he’d landed in and gazed at the torn walls, finding solace in the fact that, even when he was losing, he could still break wood.

He stumbled. One rib was left in the fountain, and another was smashed to pieces, but the rest of his skeletal body held—and, with the master’s energy pouring into him, he was slowly recovering. Good. He was going to need that, because the battle was far from over.

And they, he thought, crimson flames burning so extreme they scorched his skull, are going to pay.

Axehand did not mind getting destroyed. He only cared about victory, protecting the master, and pride. His previous debt against the tree-man had already been paid, but now he had a new one. Those two had humiliated him twice in front of Master; Axehand would settle the score or die trying.

The cyclops was more like a wild animal than a human, not inciting Axehand’s rage too much, but Jericho… Jericho would suffer.

Crossing his axe-hands in front of his face, Axehand charged through the manor, once again tearing through wood and widening the hole his flight had created. He jumped into the inner courtyard, feeling more pumped than before despite his injuries slowing him down.

A lumberjack never stops before the tree has fallen.

“Axehand!” Master cried out, and he could see the Billies preparing to assist him, but he grunted them away. They were too weak to help; and, in any case, this was his battle. He would win it alone or not at all.

“Admirable!” The other necromancer laughed. “What an exquisite death knight you have!”

Axehand could try to reach that necromancer, but he wouldn’t. He refused to obtain victory in such an underhanded manner, and most importantly, that was not his opponent. He was Master’s—and Master ought to pull his own weight.

The two nature spirits assaulted Axehand again, roots and club flying together, and this time, he was ready. When things got rough, he simply focused harder.

New memories flitted through Axehand’s mind; memories of a man endlessly swinging twin axes through a forest clearing, the trajectories becoming cleaner with time. He faintly felt these were his memories, but at the same time, they weren’t. He didn’t care—he only cared about the axes.

The man’s movements already existed inside Axehand, and he only needed to let them emerge. He did. His axes grew sharper, or so it felt, and they cut through the air with less resistance, following faster trajectories that blended together seamlessly. The roots were diced apart, the club was dodged.

“Do you know who I am?” the other necromancer’s voice carried over as he shouted something. “I’m Herald Maccain Darkson of the Wizard Order. HOW DARE YOU TOUCH ME! Destroy them!” Something had happened, obviously—maybe Master?—Axehand could not afford to look.

He pivoted around a spearing root, using an axe to barely redirect a club strike that smashed into the ground with enough strength to send stones flying everywhere. Following his rotation, Axehand buried his other axe deeply into the cyclops’s waist, drawing a scream of pain. The axe got stuck.

Before he could pull it out, a large hand grabbed Axehand’s skull from behind, raising him in the air and smashing him hard into the ground. The stuck axe was torn away from the cyclops’s body, eliciting another scream, but Jericho, apparently, did not care.

Roots speared out of the ground and onto Axehand’s body, trying to pierce through his ribcage and shatter it. They could not; but through the hole of his two missing ribs, they dug into his skeletal body and wrought mayhem.

Axehand could take that. Then, a massive greatclub landed on his back with all the hatred of a wounded cyclops, burying Axehand a foot into the dirt and cracking his entire body. He was dizzy and lost—thankfully, he felt no pain, but he could sense himself grow weaker.

It did not matter. He would fight.

Axehand dug his axes through the dirt, tearing the roots apart for long enough to hurriedly stand. A club headed for his face, and he raised both hands to block, but the club missed as the cyclops’s face was suddenly drowned in fire. More screams rang out, as, from the opening Maccain had initially created, a troop of guards ran in, accompanied by a red-feathered man with flaming fingers.

“Stop!” he shouted. “Surrender!”

The cyclops, easily the most intimidating creature in the courtyard, did not surrender. He completely forgot about Axehand and charged the guards instead.

“Back off!” Maccain shouted. “I represent the Wizard Order!”

They didn’t appear to care—the wizard’s hands glowed red again, and another person, a woman, stepped forth to meet the cyclops. His club swung, but she dodged with blinding speed, instantly finding herself behind him and stabbing his back.

“In the name of Escarbot, surrender!” she commanded.

“Fuck off!” Maccain roared, and the cyclops’s entire body turned red, steam escaping his every orifice and wound. He swiveled and clubbed a guard, scattering his body across the courtyard before releasing a tremendous roar.

The wizard launched fireballs and the woman used her superhuman speed to dash around the cyclops, barely dodging his club strikes. A web of cracks spread out each time he smashed the dirt, sending rocks and dust flying and shaking the ground under everyone’s feet.

Axehand, of course, only noticed all those from the corner of his eye. His attention was focused on his one remaining opponent, Jericho, the one who humiliated him time and time again.

You dared grab me, he wanted to say, so I will cut you down where you stand.

Unfortunately, he could only grunt, so he would speak with actions instead of words.

Jericho grinned and said, “There is no army to help you this time, Lom. I will obliterate you.”

That was an insult, and Axehand was too proud. Axes twirling, he charged, meeting a reverse rain of spearing roots. A fist barreled into his chest and threw him back. Axehand only grunted in glee, his skull morphing into a grin.

He’d managed to scratch Jericho’s skin just now. It felt like bark.

As much as his opponent seemed to have the upper hand, Axehand was the world’s greatest lumberjack, while Jericho was a tree-man. This was a battle he was destined to win. He started humming a lumberjack’s song.

49

A WATERY GRAVE

“Hurry, hurry!” Laura hissed in Boney’s ears—or where they would be if he had any. “Get the airship started! We cannot fight a Herald!”

Boney didn’t need to be told twice. He had already charged into the airship’s bowels in search of barrels—as Laura had said before—and found them. Unfortunately, there were dozens, with several different icons painted on them. Which were the right ones, and how was he supposed to use them?

He glanced at Laura, who stared right back with wide eyes.

Boney groaned. “Get them all on deck, Billy!” he ordered. “And quick. Master needs us!”

Jerry watched with bated breath as Axehand, his strongest undead, bravely stepped forth. He faced two superior opponents at once without showing an ounce of fear!

At least, Jericho’s nearly infinite power had disappeared—Gaia despised undead—but the earth spirit remained a terrifying opponent.

Go, Axehand! You can win! Jerry prayed internally, it just wasn’t enough. A casual swing smashed Axehand away. Jerry’s breath caught in his throat, and when the skeleton reappeared, ready to keep fighting, Jerry’s heart ached.

Protect yourself, Axehand! he commanded mentally. Place your life first.

His orders were absolute, he knew that. Yet, as he tried to imprint his will on Axehand’s soul, Axehand resisted, and Jerry’s will was pushed back!

It should have been impossible!

“What?” Jerry cried out, flabbergasted.

“Why so shocked?” Maccain spoke over the din of battle, misunderstanding Jerry’s surprise. “Your paltry undead cannot possibly stand up to mine.”

Jerry ignored him.

Axehand’s defiance was a mystery for another time. Gritting his teeth, he mentally commanded the rest of his undead to be on guard—none disobeyed, thankfully, but none of them could even hope to participate in a battle of that caliber, not even Boboar.

Jerry had a plan. He remembered how strong Jericho was, and they obviously couldn’t defeat him again, let alone the hulking cyclops beside him and whatever else this Maccain guy had prepared.

They only had two paths to survival. One was for Axehand to keep the enemies occupied until the airship started, protect it until it took off, then somehow jump on it without any enemies following. That sounded unlikely.

The second plan… was to deal with Maccain directly.

Jerry didn’t even know this person, yet seeing how his undead hurt Axehand, deep enmity already suffused him.

“Maccain!” he shouted, hoping for an easy solution. “Let us fight! Your soul against mine, necromancer against necromancer!”

Maccain laughed. “You think you can defeat me? I’m a two-feather, boy. If you want it, I can show you exactly how weak you are.”

Jerry’s eyes widened. It worked!

“But maybe,” the Herald continued, smiling wryly, “that won’t be necessary.”

In the next moment, Jerry’s world turned blue as water enveloped his head. Before realizing what was happening, he’d already breathed in a mouthful.

No! he thought, eyes widening in shock and pain. I trusted you, Laura!

Fighting back the rising bile of panic, he turned around, but Laura was as shocked as he was. Her eyes weren’t shining, her hands weren’t glowing; it wasn’t her.

Did it matter? Jerry was drowning.

“Master!” a shout came from below deck as all his undead, feeling Jerry’s panic, went berserk.

Jerry could barely think. As a necromancer—and, therefore, an undead—he didn’t need to breathe, but he still had some bodily functions. The water didn’t just exist around his head; it forcibly pushed in, invading his nostrils, ears, and every other orifice it could find.

Jerry was assaulted from all directions. His ears were ringing, his head spinning, and his world turned on its head as all sense of balance was lost. Magic grew weaker the closer it got to another’s body, thankfully, so the water couldn’t just burst his eardrums, but a bunch of it had invaded his nostrils before he thought to plug them with his fingers.

His throat was filled with water, and so were his lungs. A burning feeling suffused Jerry’s body, coupled with the instinctive fear of drowning, though he knew he would be safe. For a moment, he was lost and helpless, all thoughts escaping, and his undead went haywire as they rushed to his side, hoping to somehow save him.

Only Axehand resisted, resuming his fight as normal. A few words resonated within Jerry’s soul, disguised as grunting.

I believe in you, Master.

Unfortunately, Jerry was panicking, enveloped by the pain and despair of drowning. He was not in the best state to respond to or acknowledge supportive words.

The undead blindly crowded around him as Maccain laughed, and they clawed at the water, unable to do anything. Jerry was lost; with eyes shut and ears blocked, he could only feel the airship’s deck beneath him. Every other sense was water and pain.

Until it wasn’t.

The water was ripped off him, making his ears pop. Jerry coughed out violently, then took a desperate, trembling breath and opened his eyes, meeting a host of very concerned undead.

“Master!” Boney shouted, his voice full of unbridled joy, and for a moment, despite his pain, Jerry smiled.

Then, still feeling his innards burning, he looked to the side, where Laura’s entire body was glowing blue. Her hair was floating through the air, and her irises were darker than the deepest seas as she held both hands out in front of her, fingers bent. A ball of water was suspended before her, and it tussled and turned, slithered and transformed, streams jutting out and back inside.

“Appear!” she commanded, and the water sphere pulsed before quickly forming into a humanoid shape. Jerry was flabbergasted. It was a small human made of water, so small that, if it stood on the ground, it would at most reach his knee.

“A water spirit!” Laura clenched her teeth. “I will handle it. You just make us fly!”

Jerry blinked, reason returning as the panic subsided. “Boney! Hurry up! And where the hell is Marcus?”

“I don’t know, Master!” the skeleton shouted back, already dashing below deck with Billy One. Jerry gritted his teeth, turning to glare at an amused Maccain.

“You sneak attacked me!” he said.

“I did.” The other necromancer grinned. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Sever your soul.”

Jerry’s eyes shone in a mix of crimson and black. By the side, Axehand was once again flung into a wall, and Jerry could already feel streams of energy leaving him to repair the double-skeleton. If he didn’t do something, Axehand really would be destroyed.

Jerry was done playing. He grounded himself in the situation. They needed to defeat Maccain and take off before the city guards appeared—otherwise, their chances of success would plummet. Every moment they wasted signified increased danger. The urgency filled Jerry’s body, heightening his mind.

It was time to fight.

His soul ballooned inside him, filling his entire being and seeping out his orifices. Black steam escaped his body, along with a black glow, and the entirety of Jerry’s soul force rushed at Maccain, who did the same, a confident smirk on his face.

The two souls clashed in midair.

Water is formless, shapeless. It is light yet can be heavy. Its power lies in changing while remaining the same, embracing its many transformations to provide a key to the lock which is every problem.

Water flows.

And so, Laura flowed. Her thoughts lost their shape, gaining purpose from their surroundings. She let go of everything, relaxing her body and mind as she simply acted on instinct, flowing from one situation to the next.

Would she even be here, if not for water? Her life’s flow had led to her escape; she’d hid in Edge Town, waiting; when she found the opportunity, she simply flowed with it, pretending to be a dancer and waiting for the undead circus; and, when the time came, she assisted, following the stream of her life wherever it led. If they managed to escape here, maybe she would even travel to the Dead Lands with these unknown people who simply found themselves part of her life’s flow.

It was said that a wizard’s magic fit their personality, or perhaps the opposite. In Laura’s case, both were true.

Against her, the water spirit embraced that notion more literally. Laura knew of its kind; nymphs, physical manifestations of an element. She could not match its control over water, even if it was now undead, but she had a mind and volume of power that the small nymph couldn’t rival either.

Standing there on the airship’s deck, unbothered by anyone, their flows intertwined. Blue met blue as airborne streams coiled around each other, struggling to assimilate each other’s water or injure their bodies.

Laura stood still, arms stretched before her and shining with the same blue aura as her eyes. Water jets flew at her face, aiming to pierce through it, but a water curtain blocked their momentum. A wave rose from the deck, aiming to submerge the water spirit, but another wave crashed against and diverted it.

Battles between hydromancers were peculiar. Though they both flowed, their bodies remained as steady as anchors, letting their water protect them—not that they couldn’t move if they had to, but this course of action came to them instinctively.

More battles raged on below the airship, but Laura had no mind for them. She was losing. She had more sheer power, but the enemy’s delicate control wasn’t something she could match.

Laura gritted her teeth. She’d fought other hydromancers before; she was trained. Yet, this water spirit saw through all her tricks, overwhelming her like a steadily flowing current against a rock. This was no normal spirit; it was a strong one.

Which, in retrospection, shouldn’t have come as a surprise, given the necromancer’s power and temperament; Herald Maccain would never settle for mediocrity. She knew him.

Hatred clouded her mind as she struggled to push back the waves. I hate you, nymph, Maccain, and everything you stand for. Water filled her mouth, but she spat it back out.

I must not lose. You will never catch me. I will escape, no matter what, and I will return to destroy you all.

Laura’s resolve was reinforced, but, unfortunately, furious thoughts weren’t enough to turn the tide. The waves crashed on her, one after another, drenching her dress and the wooden planks beneath her feet. The intervals between breaths became longer. For the first time in her life, Laura feared drowning.

However, her mind refused to give in. Laura had learned not to hesitate.

She feigned weakness. Her water curtain faltered, and the water spirit’s waves crashed through to surround her face. All at once, she could no longer breathe—but at the same time, she squashed her most basic instincts, abandoned all defense, and sent her every drop of water at the spirit.

It did not expect that.

Compact waves landed on the water spirit’s form, one after the other, slapping it and sending pieces of its body flying before turning around for more. The spirit squealed in pain, a sort of wet, high-pitched, flopping sound that reached Laura even through the bubble of water enveloping her head.

The spirit did not withdraw. Both opponents had committed to an attack, and whoever fell first would lose. There was no one to help her—everyone was either too busy fighting or getting the airship started.

Laura’s throat burned, and her chest convulsed as it struggled to draw breath. She clamped down. Seconds stretched to infinity as she felt that this was it, she had to open her mouth and breathe in, but she pushed against that impulse with every speck of mental strength she could dig out. It was torture, but she persevered; through her water, now attacking on instinct, she could feel the spirit’s water body falter. Half of it was gone already… but how long could an undead water spirit last?

She did not know, and that terrified her.

No matter how long she persisted, the spirit refused to fall. Laura’s entire body flared with pain as she finally opened her mouth, taking in a mouthful of water⁠—

And the bubble around her head fell off.

Laura dropped to the ground, coughing and wheezing as she focused her magic on drawing the water out of her lungs, and the process was so invasive and revolting that she puked right there on the airship’s deck before regaining a semblance of awareness.

In front of her, there was no water spirit anymore, only a patch of soaked wooden planks—most of its body had fallen to the deck below. The water spirit was gone.

Laura drew a trembling breath before forcing herself to look around, then leaned against the railing to rest. She was spent—so exhausted that she couldn’t control two drops.

Finally… she thought with a weak smile. These people seem kind… If we manage to escape, I really hope they don’t kill me.

And with that, Laura rested, watching the two necromancers go head-to-head.

Can he match Maccain?

50

BATTLE OF SOULS

Jerry’s and Maccain’s souls clashed midair.

Like two armies fighting, or two bodies of water trying to drown each other, they split into strands and streams, coiling and twisting and ensnaring each other. It was the first time Jerry engaged in soul battle—the knowledge came easy, and his soul obeyed his will as it split and dashed, executing the formations he invented on the fly.

It felt glorious.

But Maccain was there, too, and the moment their souls collided, Jerry could instantly tell he was outclassed. Where his soul was a stream, Maccain’s was an entire raging river—and though Jerry did his best, he too quickly drowned in the other necromancer’s sheer volume of power.

Even if he could somehow resist this, Maccain’s soul was superior in every way. Where Jerry was a farmer who suddenly found himself leading an army, Maccain was an experienced general, and every attempt to fight back was squashed with ease.

Jerry felt like a toddler fighting an adult.

There’s so much room to grow…

Two-feather wizards really were different; a mountain peak rising into the clouds. He couldn’t hold a candle.

Jerry was flooded with awe. For a moment, the realization of how much there was to learn excited him beyond belief, to the extent that he forgot about Maccain being an opponent and admired his mastery.

In the next moment, Jerry’s soul force was overwhelmed and forcibly dispersed, leaving him dry heaving atop the airship. Everything was fuzzy and painful; it was like drowning again, but ten times worse.

How can you be this weak? a voice rang directly inside his soul, cutting through the haze. How can your little soul control a death knight, let alone one so strong? What secrets do you hide?

Through bleary eyes, Jerry focused on Maccain, making out a face twisted in confusion.

I must know! the voice continued, split between excitement, fear, and fanatical desire. You must be mine! I will disband your undead and enslave you, prying away every tiny detail of your life until I find out the truth.

A pitch-black hand invaded Jerry’s soul, bypassing any and all defenses as it reached for the links tying him to his undead. No… Jerry thought weakly. No, no, no!

His soul force flared and was instantly squashed again. He was completely helpless. He hated that. The hand grabbed the links and squeezed.

NO!

“NO!”

The hand recoiled as if grabbing burning ropes, and Jerry was surprised because the voice that screamed wasn’t his. Forcing himself to look, he found Maccain with his arms raised, struggling to shield himself from a spinning maelstrom of bony violence.

Foxy!

Jerry had never been more relieved, except perhaps that time when he unleashed fifteen years of pent-up magic in one go.

Glass shards still rained from the second-floor window Foxy had charged through to reach Maccain, and the necromancer was screaming as he struggled to keep the skeletal fox away from his vitals. The foreign influence inside Jerry retreated.

“BACK OFF!” Maccain screamed, using his soul force as a physical power to slam Foxy away with enough strength to send her careening onto the airship. Cracking sounds accompanied the fall, and the fox went still.

“Foxy!” Jerry shouted again, rushing to her body, and he heaved a large sigh of relief when he found her still alive, if barely. He raised his gaze at the enemy necromancer. “You will pay, Maccain!”

The Herald was still standing, glaring at Jerry even as he lost black blood from various places. A new, vertical scar could be seen on his forehead, intersecting with the horizontal one and forming a cross.

“How dare you touch me, slave?” he raved. “Do you know who I am? I am Herald Maccain Darkson of the Wizard Order. HOW DARE YOU TOUCH ME! Destroy them!”

Maccain’s two remaining undead roared. Jericho dived into the fray himself, grabbing Axehand’s skull, raising him in the air, and smashing him into the ground. The cyclops swung his greatclub right after, planting the double-skeleton deeper into the soil even as the earth shook around them.

Jerry felt Axehand’s soul shudder. “No!” he screamed.

The cyclops raised his greatclub to strike again. Axehand managed to get up and cross his arms in front of his face, trying to block, but it was like an ant facing a human. The result was clear.

“NO!” Jerry shouted again, but he could only watch in horror.

A bright ball of fire crossed the air, landing on the cyclops’s head and enveloping it in flames. He missed, and Axehand, that brave lumberjack, remained standing.

A group of guards appeared from a hole in the manor’s walls. They only carried melee weapons or, at most, spears—arrows were generally useless against the undead, so the majority of soldiers of Edge weren’t trained with them.

Jerry recognized their leader; she was the commander he’d seen on the Wall, the nature spirit who’d matched the death knight. They also had a pyromancer who, fortunately, attacked on sight before realizing the undead were fighting each other, and accidentally saved Axehand.

“Stop!” Maccain shouted. “I represent the Wizard Order!”

They did not care. Growling, the cyclops rushed at the guards, but the female spirit from the Wall reached him first, tiptoeing around his massive body and stabbing his back. The cyclops growled, and as he turned to hit her, she dodged again. Flames found his head, drawing more screams of pain, and the guards fanned around the cyclops with weapons at the ready.

“Fine!” Maccain lost his composure. “Die first!”

Jerry felt something, then. A large part of Maccain’s soul force left his body, traveling in a straight line to reach the cyclops.

Is that the link between them? he wondered. What is he doing?

At the next moment, the cyclops’s power skyrocketed. His skin turned red and steaming. His movements grew faster, his club got stronger. Through the flames, the cyclops grinned—and then, with impossible speed, he rammed his greatclub into a guard and blew him to bits. Meanwhile, with Gorgon drawing everyone’s gazes, Maccain seemed to disappear. Wizards were fragile, and despite his agitation, Maccain was a principled individual—now that more enemies had arrived, he ought to hide and reposition himself.

“What! How?” Jerry exclaimed as he saw Gorgon obliterating a soldier, because he had no idea what just happened.

“I’m here!” a voice came from behind, and Jerry turned to find Marcus, who dropped his heavy backpack on the deck. The treasure hunter was already in motion—ignoring the two hydromancers fighting on the deck—rushing to where the balloon’s supports were. “We must leave right away. Where the hell is the fuel?”

“Right here!”

Boney and a Billy burst out of the stairs, carrying three barrels in total, each with a different symbol on it. “Which one is the fuel?”

“The fire one, you numbskull! Quick, quick, bring it over!”

They dropped the other two barrels and ran at the treasure hunter, who was already messing with a weird pipe system. “Quick, quick!” he shouted again, struggling to fit the barrel into a particular position before pointing at Laura’s side. “And what the hell is that!”

“Laura!” Boney replied. “She’s with us now.”

“Who the fuck is Laura?”

“She’s a dancer.”

“She’s a hydromancer!”

“And Master’s a shoemaker. Look, I have no clue either!” Boney relented. “She just showed up and joined us, but she saved Master!”

“You accepted random people into our expedition?” A click came as Marcus managed to fit the barrel into the proper position. He grabbed a lever and lowered a sharp iron pipe into the barrel’s waxed opening as he continued, “Are you out of your goddamn mind? I’m the leader here! You need to consult me!”

“First of all, no, you’re not. And second, the more the merrier!” Boney replied, rushing downstairs to bring another flame-marked barrel. “Master said so!”

“The more the—Screw you! And where the hell are you going? I need help!”

“I’m here!” Jerry cried out, arriving by Marcus’s side.

“Good, hold the pipe steady.”

“Which one’s the pipe?”

“The sharp one!”

“They’re all sharp!”

“Manna-damn-it, get out of the way! I’ll do it myself!”

Jerry stepped back as Marcus operated two pieces of machinery at once, the threat to his life giving him excellent dexterity.

Then came a click, a tearing, and a woosh, and the sound of moving air was heard from the pipe in front of Jerry—the sharpest one.

“It’s working!” he exclaimed, looking up.

“Well, don’t bloody tell them!”

The airship shook. “Stop them!” came a series of shouts, and then the stomping of boots approached their airship.

“Stop them!” Jerry repeated, sending a horde of undead off the airship and against the incoming guards. Boboar, Headless, and the other three Billies were finally able to help!

A massive oink followed a disembodied roar as the undead unleashed themselves into battle, meeting the contingent of guards head-on. Boboar plowed through their group as Headless wielded his spear, and the three Billies grabbed a sword each as they jumped into the fray.

For a few moments, the pandemonium reached a peak. Gorgon fought some guards, zombies fought some other guards, Axehand fought Jericho, the airship was taking off, screams came from everywhere, Maccain was hiding and preparing to strike, and all manor staff quickly evacuated to the town, bringing along the count’s children as well.

Facing the zombies’ assault, all eight guards roared together, “For the king!” They wielded their spears in a formation which Boboar promptly broke apart, sending one of them flying before rushing past the battlefield himself—boars needed time to turn.

The remaining guards fell on the four zombies, and steel met steel as the clash of blades resounded in the courtyard. The zombies were way less skilled than the guards, but they were undead and could shrug off deadly wounds as if they were nothing.

This sight would have been beyond intimidating for most people, but these guards were hardened veterans of the Wall, and they had ample experience fighting the undead. Strike after strike landed on the Billies’ heads, chopping off bits and pieces even as the guards sustained wounds themselves.

Boboar returned, but they jumped out of his way, and the double-boar once again struggled to turn. Then, with a well-timed leap and an aerial somersault, one of the Billies found himself standing atop Boboar, and he grinned in glee.

The guards did a double-take—and in that time, the rider Billy plowed through their ranks, frenziedly striking left and right with his sword. When a guard parried the attack, the Billy lost his balance and fell off, but sprang back up. One guard did not—he had been cleanly beheaded, more due to luck than skill on the Billy’s part.

The Billies roared for their brother’s triumph, and Headless twirled his spear above his shoulders, drawing inspiration from that Billy to fight harder. Unfortunately, he could not mount Boboar mid-battle, so he could only keep going as he was and hope for the best. The zombies and Boboar were pushed back and cornered against the shaking airship, but they didn’t mind.

For their master, they would do anything.

Suddenly, a tearing sound filled the battlefield. The airship shook one final time before rising, breaking the ground where it had been indented after years of immobility. Pieces of its hull fell off, but it was an airship, and it didn’t really need a hull in the first place. Water even flowed out of the holes; the remains of the undead water spirit.

“We’re flying!” Jerry’s voice came from above. “Climb up, everyone! Hurry!”

The three thick ropes tying the airship down were pulled taut, and the airship shook as it went still. “The ropes, the ropes!” came Marcus’s voice. “Cut the ropes!”

51

THE LUMBERJACK’S FURY

Jericho grinned at Axehand. “You think you’re something, don’t you?. A pitiful, stupid undead who can’t even talk…”

Unlike Jericho, Axehand didn’t taunt—what lumberjack speaks with trees?

A strong breeze blew through the manor’s holes, and the steel flask jingled on Axehand’s waist. He uncorked it to take a large gulp, eyes locked on Jericho—and then, as moonlit wine dripped down his fractured ribcage, he tossed the flask onto the airship.

Axehand was ready to fight. A bone grin blossomed on his face. He charged.

Roots met blades, spearing through the ground as if the plants below had gone berserk. Axehand’s axes twirled through the air in overbearing trajectories, hacking everything in their way. Roots met bone, but Axehand’s cracked body remained sturdy.

With strength, endurance, speed, and just a bit of technique, Axehand was an absolute menace—and, most importantly, Jericho no longer had access to a bottomless storage of strength. The nature spirit was pushed back.

“You are unnatural!” Jericho cried out. “Mindless abominations like you are the ultimate insult to Mother!”

Axehand grunted in mockery. Jericho refused to acknowledge it, but he was no less of an abomination.

Axehand twisted around a pair of sharp roots, letting another pair slam into him and further crack his bones to advance faster. Feet pressing against the ground, he charged right through a root cluster and met Jericho’s surprised stare, finally within striking distance. Axehand grinned. His blades shone in the moonlight as he hacked them down, and Jericho jumped back to dodge, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Two long lines were drawn on his raised forearm, dripping thick, green blood—exactly three drops. Jericho’s features contorted as he retreated at top speed, raising a slithering wall of roots between them.

“No! Every drop of my blood is precious, heathen! You will pay for this!”

Axehand grunted. Do your worst. Sooner or later, the tree will fall.

The two clashed again, a brutal maelstrom of blades meeting a storm of roots—and though Jericho was retreating, Axehand’s progress was slow. For now, they were locked in a stalemate, one Axehand would not retreat from. He would fell this tree. No matter what.

The master’s will spoke in their minds, and the zombies didn’t need to be told twice. With long strides, the Billies reached the nearest rope and began chopping while Boboar and Headless defended against all the guards. They received multiple hits, but Boboar was sturdy, and Headless’s head was oddly protected on his chest as the soldiers had little practice striking there. Plus, the chest area was easier to protect.

However, no matter how they tried to defend, the hits still piled on. Boboar’s charges were dodged, and he was struck multiple times in return. His enhanced bones were cracking, and his spine was breaking. Headless was in an even worse situation, already riddled with holes like goose cheese.

As the Billies cut a rope and moved to the next one, Boboar and Headless were on their last legs. They didn’t mind—for such a kind master, they would gladly fall.

Suddenly, screeches and squeaks filled the battlefield. Before the guards knew it, a flood of mice reached them, climbing their armor and trying to sneak in with terrible ferocity. The guards screamed and dropped their weapons, backpedaling as they desperately tried to stop the mice from infiltrating their armor, but in that time, the other undead had escaped.

“STOP THEM!” a furious scream came from a second-story window. “They’re stealing my airship!”

It was Count Decaron, well-dressed but still drunk. Despite the cataclysmic battle below, he dared walk to the window and even shout—clearly, he believed himself safe.

“We’re only borrowing it!” Jerry shouted back.

With a swing of Headless’s spear, the final rope was cut off, and the airship jolted upward.

“Grab on!” Jerry yelled as Headless and three Billies held onto the cut-off ropes for dear unlife, letting themselves get pulled into the sky as they climbed up. Boboar had jumped on the ramp as the rest cut off the final rope. Everyone was on board or would be soon, except one person.

“AXEHAND!”

Jerry watched in horror. From above, he could see the ground rapidly pulling away, and on that ground, Axehand was still locked in heated combat with Jericho. The airship was already over the manor’s first floor, approaching the level of the roof, and Axehand showed no sign of running for it.

He couldn’t. If he tried, Jericho would follow, and there was no way to escape him.

Noticing their imminent departure, Axehand only grunted in satisfaction. He could be left behind; all he asked for was a good battle. He would never give in to a tree person. He would triumph against Jericho or fall trying.

Axehand was the world’s proudest lumberjack.

“AXEHAND!” Jerry’s screams reached his ears as his urgent commands reached his soul; he ignored them all. Around him, a few guards were running from mice, the cyclops was fighting the rest of them, and Maccain was hiding somewhere in fear of the pyromancer’s ire and fire. Only Axehand and Jericho were left, duking it out in the middle of the hole-ridden courtyard.

Just as he thought that, a dark soul creeped into his body. It reached Axehand’s soul, where the link to Jerry was, and tried to merge with it.

Axehand shook, and on the airship, so did Jerry. Maccain grinned from his hiding place. “Your death knight will be mine… If I can get him, everything will be worth it.”

This was his trump card.

Maccain had been deeply impressed by Axehand in this battle, and he sensed the latter’s potential. He already had Jericho; if he could replace the dead water spirit with Axehand, his collection would take another step toward perfection!

Maccain didn’t think Jerry could resist him; he’d already seen his soul. Against such a weak opponent, usurping the link would be easy.

The moment he tried, Jerry felt the same, and his face went pale as a profound fear filled his body. Axehand! No!

Everything was happening too quickly. Maccain’s power merged into the link, cut off Jerry, and reached for Axehand’s soul to imprint his mark. This was the easy part; the soul mark was already there, just with a different owner, and the undead had no power over it. Only the necromancer did, and Maccain had already overpowered Jerry.

However, just as he reached Axehand’s soul, a deep grunt shook Maccain’s soul. He was violently evicted by a tremendous force, making his eyes fuzzy and forcing him to withdraw his power. Jerry regained control of Axehand like nothing had happened.

Everyone was puzzled; even Axehand.

Maccain stared at Axehand in disbelief. “What? That… That’s not possible!”

It wasn’t the first or second time Maccain stole another’s undead, and he intimately understood how things worked. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The undead had no power over the soul mark; only their necromancer did.

Axehand shouldn’t have been able to resist. Yet, he did!

Maccain was shaken. He had no idea what happened. This made no sense; if Axehand was strong enough to affect the soul mark, he should have already broken it and gone wild. What was happening?

While Maccain was puzzled, Jerry simply smiled. He wasn’t sure what happened either, but he knew Axehand had handled it.

Moreover, he was certain that necromancers couldn’t steal each other’s undead. This ability was probably Maccain’s Awakening—the result of discovering your individual flavor of magic and gaining a unique ability. Awakening was the difference between one-feather and two-feather wizards, and it was massive.

This entire mental battle had happened almost instantly. The airship was still rising, and down on the ground, Axehand and Jericho were glaring at each other.

Jericho grinned. “They’re leaving you behind. So much for being a friend.”

Mind your own damn business, Axehand wanted to respond. You will fall to my axes.

Of course, he couldn’t say that, so he only grunted in challenge. Jericho accepted. Their battle would go on.

But not on their terms.

“Jericho!” Maccain’s voice rang out, shaking a bit. “Stop the damn airship!”

Jericho’s body glowed red and steaming. The cyclops groaned as the extra power left his body, transferred to the other of Maccain’s undead, and the poor cyclops was immediately surrounded by the female nature spirit, the fire wizard, and the remaining guards.

As for Jericho… Jericho clenched his fists, grinning madly at the surge of strength he was receiving. His oily dark hair fluttered in the air, his dark eyes shining red.

“This is it,” he muttered, looking at his hands. “Like Mother… All this power…”

From where he lay hidden, Maccain grabbed his chest, his eyes twitching. “What a terrifying absorption rate!” he exclaimed, looking at Jericho with mad greed. Today was simply one surprise after another. “Such a strong body… Just how much power can he stand?”

The transfusion came to an end. Jericho’s body hadn’t even reached its limit yet, but Maccain had! However, even like this, Jericho was much stronger than Gorgon had been.

A red haze with shades of green exploded out of Jericho, sending dust and stones flying. Roots speared out of the ground, much thicker and faster than before. The earth spirit raised his eyes, a dark green aura surrounding him as he locked gazes with Axehand’s crimson flames.

“When you took three drops of my blood, I told you you’d pay… Unfortunately, you’re so worthless that even your life is not enough to repay me. A shame.”

Faster than Axehand could react, the tip of a hard root met his ribcage from the side, sending him flying sideways and back into the manor. Jericho looked at where Axehand had flown and laughed—then, the ground cracked below his feet as he jumped high into the air, grabbing the end of a rope that dangled from the airship. A root thicker than any other rose from the ground, reaching Jericho twenty feet into the air and coiling around his waist. Then, with a herculean roar, while still suspended in midair, he pulled down.

The airship creaked as it forcibly came to a halt, then tilted heavily as Jericho kept pulling. His action resembled climbing up the rope, but as the thick roots were holding his body still, it was the airship that was descending instead. Up there, everything shook.

“Gods-dammit!” Marcus shouted, struggling to hold on to something. “This is cheating! I must complain!”

“Cut the rope!” Boney screamed, sliding over with a sword in hand.

Jerry’s forehead wrinkled. Even if they cut the rope in time, Axehand was still down there. They couldn’t abandon him. They had to do something. He gazed at Jericho’s red-lit body.

“How is he doing this!” This red steam… Empowering undead… What a novel notion!

Sending more power through the soul link… he mused, already lost in his thoughts. Axehand’s current strength wasn’t enough, Jerry himself clearly couldn’t defeat Maccain, and he was all out of ideas. He had to find out how Maccain was doing this, and he had to master it now.

“Hold me!” he shouted, letting go of the railing and letting himself slide down. A burly hand reached out and grabbed him—Billy One.

Overcharging the soul link… Can I do it too?

His mind reached into his soul, finding the link connecting him to Axehand. He could feel it shuddering—clearly, the double-skeleton was on his last legs.

Each link drew an amount of energy proportional to the undead’s strength. Axehand’s, for example, demanded almost as much energy as everyone else’s combined—and that was just the energy needed for the bonds between soul and body to maintain themselves.

But now…

In desperation, Jerry took a risk. Forgoing all notions of safety, he grabbed every single bit of soul energy he could scrunch up and stuffed it into the link. It instantly grew red, bloating from the pressure as a river of energy flowed into it—and then, through it, into Axehand.

Jerry lost his breath.

Down below, everything shook as the manor’s walls exploded. Axehand was revealed in all his glory, cracked throughout, red, and steaming from his very bones. His skull was shaped into a grin, and the very air around him pulsed with power, vibrating to the tune of Axehand’s excited grunts.

At that moment, he was like a devil incarnate, and everyone froze.

“NO!” Jericho roared. Axehand looked up—and then he jumped.

He did not try to cut down the root tying Jericho to the ground, though he could certainly do it. No, Axehand was a proud undead, and he wouldn’t accept defeat. His feet pushed against the ground with enough force to crack it, and he sailed through the air like a bird, like an arrow.

Roots rose to stop or delay him, but Axehand’s momentum and strength were so great that he tore right through those thick roots like nothing, heading straight for Jericho.

“No!” the earth spirit roared again. He released the rope to let the root pull him down, and he partly succeeded, but Axehand was simply too fast.

He flew past, and a single axe-hand cut Jericho’s still outstretched arm clean off at the shoulder. A fountain of green blood erupted.

Jericho screamed in shock as he tumbled to the ground—and, from his shoulder, the green blood had begun to dry out, black replacing it. “No,” he mumbled, watching the last of his mother’s blessing escape in horror and disbelief. “NO!”

He erupted into maddened screams.

Axehand grunted a chuckle. He smashed into the manor’s other side, digging through the walls and shaking the entire residence, which, by now, was already on the verge of collapsing—coincidentally, the room that Axehand had smashed into was the count’s, and the man was staring with a trembling jaw from only a couple feet away.

Ignoring Decaron, Axehand rose back up—but, as Jericho had let go of the rope, the airship had once again jolted upward, and even the longest rope was shooting up at great speed.

“Axehand!” Jerry roared. “GRAB THE ROPE!”

“You idiot!” Marcus replied. “He has axe-hands!”

Jerry’s heart dropped. Axehand grunted. Pushing against the floor, he catapulted himself upward like a loose arrow, quickly closing the distance between himself and the rope’s end. His jump had taken him easily thirty feet into the air.

The floor collapsed, taking that entire section of the manor with it, and Count Decaron was buried underneath the falling debris, but nobody paid him any mind. The battle between the guards and Gorgon was already over, letting them watch with gaping mouths.

Every single gaze was glued on Axehand as he reached the rope… and slammed his axe-hands against it, sandwiching the end between their flat sides! The rope swayed and threatened to toss him off. Everyone’s heart was in their throats, but with his massive strength, Axehand held on!

He was dangling from a rapidly ascending, furiously swaying rope! Whether on the ground or on the airship, no one could move! The rope, after being pulled so hard before, unraveled right above Axehand.

“Pull him up!” Boney shouted. “He can’t climb! Quick, everyone, pull him up!”

Four Billies and Headless grabbed the rope at the same time, tugging with every ounce of strength they had left, and finally managed to pull up Axehand just before the rope broke.

The red color left Axehand’s bones as he tumbled on the deck, lying still but safe.

“We made it!” Boney screamed.

“By Manna…” Marcus grabbed his chest. “I’m too old for this.”

Laura smiled. The undead cheered. Jerry mumbled, “Oh, thank Desistos…” before collapsing on the deck.

The ground retreated farther and farther away. Jericho’s screams of impotent rage were loud enough to shake the sky, yet no matter how he shouted, no matter how angrily Maccain, his undead, or the guards stared, they could do nothing.

This battle was a complete victory.

52

FLYING PAST THE DAMN WALL

The ground flew away as the airship steadily rose, splitting the wind to approach the clouds.

“That went pretty well!” Jerry said with a smile, lying on the deck with arms sprawled to the sides.

“Well, my ass!” Marcus replied. His hand was on his chest, and he was panting. “We almost died thrice!”

“But we made it,” Laura added. “All of us.”

He turned toward her. “Who even are you?”

“I’m Laura. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“All mine, but the question stands. Who are you? Why are you here?”

She smiled at Marcus, her chest still trembling from exhaustion. “I overheard you in the town, figured out your plan, then hid in the manor to join you. I apologize for being indirect, but I was afraid you’d refuse me if I asked outright.”

“Of course we would.” Marcus frowned. “This is business, and tight one, too. We cannot let random people join us—even if they’re hydromancers.”

“I was in need,” she said, eyes mellowing. “I know I overstepped, but there was no other way.”

“Come on, Marcus,” Jerry said from the deck. “Don’t be grumpy. You know what they say; the more the merrier. Where’s the harm in taking her along?”

The treasure hunter struck him with a glare. Jerry smiled in response, standing up and heading toward Axehand’s fallen form. Overcharging him like that had taken a toll on both of them, and that’s not even mentioning the previous injuries the undead sustained. The enigma of his disobedience to Jerry and resistance to Maccain remained, and it was certainly tantalizing to solve, but healing Axehand took priority.

The double-skeleton’s bones started squirming as the others carried on with their discussion.

“I owe you my life,” Laura said, gazing earnestly at Marcus. “I won’t betray you in any way. I mean no harm.”

“Let’s all be friends.” Boney strolled over, spreading his bony arms wide. “It’s not like we have a bone to pick with each other. Since Laura’s already here, why make things difficult?”

“That’s right.” She gave a flowery smile. “I don’t have a single bad bone in my body.”

Everyone stared. Boney stated, “Did you just⁠—”

“I can pay, too,” Laura continued. “Not much, but I can give you everything I have. All I ask is that you drop me off anywhere in the Dead Lands.”

Marcus hesitated, alternating his gaze between her and the large sack of taels he’d brought on board. “You don’t need to pay,” he finally said. “Just… who are you?”

“I have that question, too,” Boney said. “Why are you trying to get to the Dead Lands? You’re a hydromancer, right? You could live a comfortable life in Edge Town, or Milaris, or wherever you want.”

“If only it was so simple.” She gave a sad smile. “There are dangerous people after me. I needed to escape, and the Dead Lands is the only place where I can stay hidden—at least, the only such place I can reach.”

“Dangerous people, huh?” Marcus frowned as he looked at the far-off ground. “I understand now. That’s fine; what’s done is done, just don’t cause us any more trouble. We’re in the same boat, anyway.”

He glanced at Laura knowingly, and she smiled in gratitude.

“Still, if you go to the Dead Lands, you’ll die,” Boney noted. “Aren’t you afraid of the Curse?”

“I have my ways.”

“And what would those be?”

She raised a wood nettle necklace.

“Oh…” Jerry sighed, standing up to inspect his work. Axehand grunted and stood up as well, gazing at Jerry with purple eye-flames before limping away—he wasn’t fully healed, but Jerry was spent.

“You saved us all, Axehand… On behalf of everyone, thank you.”

The double-skeleton looked over his shoulder, grunting once. He then sat down, grabbed his flask, and started drinking.

With a relieved sigh, the necromancer turned to the others. “I’m sorry, Laura, but wood nettle doesn’t work—it’s only a superstition.”

“It works if you’re smart about it. The explorers of Alabaster have discovered how to make actual, working medicine against the Curse—the prejudice isn’t all hollow.” She smiled.

Marcus said, “How do you know that? It’s supposed to be a tightly guarded secret.”

“A girl has her ways.” She looked at Jerry. “And, if possible, I ask that you don’t pry too much.”

“Sure. Everyone’s got their secrets.”

“Jerry!”

“What? She’s with us now; we should trust her. Let’s just travel together until we find a nice, civilized place to drop her off.”

Laura smiled again. “Sure!”

Boney sighed in helplessness. “Oh, Master… That’s so wrong I don’t even know where to begin.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Jerry laughed. “Anyway, all’s well that ends well, right? We even got some money for our trouble, right, Marcus?”

“Indeed…” Marcus gazed at the sack of taels, love in his eyes. “So many… Between me and your undead animals, we must have brought a few thousand worth of taels… This is a dream.”

“The mice…” Jerry’s eyes took a sad tint. “I thought they would join us, but I guess it wasn’t meant to be. With any luck, they’ll escape the guards and live happy unlives in the sewers. I’ve already released them from my control.”

“Having wild undead in the sewers sounds like a terrible idea,” Marcus groused.

“Don’t worry; they’re good kids. They won’t bother anybody.”

“If you say so, I gue—Ah! Crap, the fuel! We reached altitude, why didn’t anybody tell me?”

Marcus headed for the center of the deck, where the fuel barrel was still attached to the balloon through a pipe. Grabbing a valve at the end of the pipe, he turned it with some difficulty, and the airship’s ascent decelerated before coming to a gradual stop.

“You four”—he turned to the Billies—“what are you sitting around for? Unfurl the sails already, we need to go before they send flying wizards after us!”

“There are flying wizards?” Jerry’s mouth opened wide as Marcus directed the Billies to the sails, pointing at the ropes they had to pull. Thankfully, the moon shone bright tonight. The four of them climbed up the two masts like monkeys, and a few minutes later, with a whooshing sound, two white sails dropped and filled with wind.

The airship, now holding a mostly steady altitude, sailed forward.

“You need to explain how this works tomorrow, Marcus,” Jerry said, stepping beside the treasure hunter.

“Sure. Look, Jerry! The wind is on our side; it’s blowing to the Dead Lands!”

“That’s great news, isn’t it?” The necromancer crossed his arms behind his back. Below their airship, Edge Town was illuminated by countless small torches, making for a magical view if one only looked down. “This is wonderful… but I wonder, Marcus, can we enjoy it, or do we need a nice view permit?”

The treasure hunter turned around. “A what?”

“A nice view permit.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. A moment later, he groaned. “You heard me through the mice, didn’t you?”

“I did.” Jerry released a beaming smile.

“Heard what, Master?”

“Don’t tell him!”

“Marcus was spotted in the manor by a maid, and his excuse was that he was looking for a circus permit.”

“I see. Let me guess; he didn’t have a good excuse permit,” Boney replied without missing a beat.

“I panicked, okay? Leave me alone.”

“But do you have a leave-me-alone permit?”

Marcus groaned. Jerry continued to smile.

“Jokes aside, Marcus, is there anything else you need to do right now?”

He looked over in suspicion. “No. Why?”

“There’s something I need to talk to you about…” Jerry glanced at the large sack of taels.

“What? You’ll get your fair share.”

“That’s not it. That money was originally stolen from the town, right? The count embezzled them, so logically speaking, they belong to the townspeople.”

Marcus narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like where this is going. You’re not touching my share.”

“But you saw how poor they are,” Jerry insisted. “You’re practically stealing from beggars.”

“The count stole from beggars, and I stole from the count. I don’t see your point. What do you want to do anyway, throw them down?”

Jerry’s smile widened. Marcus blinked.

“No,” he said in growing horror. “You want to throw them down.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” said the necromancer. “This money belongs to them. It will be useless where we’re going, anyway.”

“But it’s taels! They’ll be useful when we return!”

“If we return. In any case, this money belongs to Edge, not us. We just retrieved it from the count. Are you really going to steal from the poor?”

“But…” Marcus took a step back, eyes swiveling from side to side. “No. Stop. You can’t do this to me! What if they land on someone’s head?”

“They’re coins—at most, they’ll give people a bump.”

“What if they get stuck on the rooftops and remain useless—or worse, people climb up to get them and end up falling to their deaths?”

“Now you’re just grasping for straws, Marcus.” Jerry laughed. “It will be fine. We’ll find more money elsewhere, and if we don’t,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “when we get Dorman’s treasure, you can just have a portion of my share.”

“But your share is tin—” Marcus stopped himself, taking a deep breath. “You can’t do this to me!” he yelled, grabbing the sack with both arms. “I worked so hard for this! I wanted it so bad!”

“Right is right, Marcus.”

“Personally, I could keep the money,” Boney said, “but I have to side with Master on this one.”

“Me too,” Laura added, nodding.

Marcus pointed a finger at her. “Who said you could talk?”

“I gave her a speaking permit,” Boney said from the side, making Jerry chuckle.

Laura shrugged. “I’m just expressing my opinion.”

“But… my taels…” Marcus whimpered. Facing all those stares, he had no choice but to buckle. He pouted, helplessness coloring his voice. “This is so unfair.”

“Look at the bright side,” Boney said, gently prying the sack from his hands. He pulled the cord open and walked to the railing, gazing at the town far below—in the darkness of the night, and from this height, the houses were barely even visible. They were already a thousand feet into the sky.

Marcus trembled, holding himself back. Boney took a deep breath. “For the town of Edge… you’re a hero.”

And then, he emptied the sack into the wind.

“NO!” Marcus cried out, leaping at the railing to grab a single coin, but the rest were already spiraling downward, driven apart by the winds. “I don’t want to be a hero! I just wanna be rich!”

The coins fell despite his pleas, and he could only snivel as he held on to the one he’d managed to save. “Goodbye, my shinies…”

Jerry laughed.

And then, with the night wind on their sails, victory in their hearts, and a new person aboard, they crossed over the Wall.

They were in the Dead Lands.

The people of Edge Town would never forget that night.

The world-shaking sounds of combat hadn’t long died down when plinks came from the rooftops; first one, then a downpour—and they stopped as quickly as they came.

People peeked through their windows—and, in the town of the poor, the streets shone with coins bathed in bright moonlight.

“What the—” Many jaws fell. And then, the people celebrated, for the gods had blessed them and rained money in their time of need. It was a moment of release. Come morning, the temple of Manna had never seen more worshippers congregating before its altar.

News of the count’s death spread like wildfire. His children were recalled to the capital, and with no one of age to inherit his position, the townspeople urged the female commander of the Wall, Hypolite, to assume leadership. She was an earth spirit, and her only desire was to fight the undead in the name of Gaia. The town’s progress would benefit her, so she’d do her best.

The manor’s vaults were ransacked, and all the money was put to good use. With a capable leader at the helm, Edge Town’s downcast look rapidly changed, and over the next few months, a new breath of life was infused into the town.

Nobody knew exactly what happened that night in the manor, calling their mysterious savior a hero—and those in the know opted not to reveal that this hero was a hated necromancer.

The abandoned, colorful tent in the town square was taken down two days later, but stories about the undead circus would remain in circulation for a long time.

As for the protagonists of those stories, they would only learn about Edge Town’s future a long time later. By the time the coins landed, the airship had already crossed over the Wall and into the mysterious Dead Lands.

Jerry and his friends were heading to new, wonderful adventures… in the most dangerous place the world had ever seen.

53

CRUISING

Jerry leaned against the railing and took a deep, deep breath. The ground rolled below, seemingly slow but actually fast, and the wind buffeted his face, sending strands of black hair flying backward. He hadn’t had a haircut in a long time, not since Derek helped groom him for Pilpen’s council, over half a year ago.

How is Derek, I wonder? Jerry thought, leaning lower against the wooden railing until his jaw rested on it. Maybe he and Holly have already settled down in Milaris and are living a nice life. I sure hope he’s happy… and that Holly doesn’t fall for the wrong guy again.

Jerry enjoyed reminiscing the past—nostalgia brought a smile to his lips and warmth to his heart. He’d was happy for what he’d lived, not regretful that it was over, and he was secretly proud of this secret to life not many people knew.

Yes, this is nice.

Jerry reclined back into his heavenly soft chair, strategically placed by the railing, enjoying the dual comfort of clouds on his bottom and breeze on his face—triple comfort, if one included the wonderful sight his eyes greedily scoured.

Few people would characterize the barren plains and wandering dots of undeath far below as wonderful, but Jerry was one of them.

After escaping the Wizard Order at Edge Town, Jerry’s group had used their borrowed airship to fly past the Wall and into the Dead Lands, heading for the very center, where Dorman’s treasure awaited—according to Marcus.

It had been a week since then, in which they hadn’t stopped at all. The fuel barrels stored in the hold were enough to last them a month, they had brought food and water for the living, and they were steadily approaching the central area of the Dead Lands. In only a day or two, they would arrive.

In the meantime, everyone had gotten more acquainted with each other. It’s a nice feeling, Jerry thought, looking back at the deck. Friends…

Axehand, fully healed from the battle, sat on the ship’s prow, gazing far ahead while slowly sipping on wine—he cut an almost romantic figure, if with alcoholic tendencies. Boney and Headless had crafted a checkerboard out of some wood, enjoying game after game—Boney almost always won, and Headless enjoyed moving his head around the board to look at it from different angles.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, still unable to form proper words, and moved a wooden flake they called a piece.

“You fool,” Boney said, letting out a cluckle—the combination of a chuckle and his bony jaw’s clacking. His piece captured two of Headless’s. “You fell right into my trap!”

“Ooooh!” Headless groaned, falling on his back while Boney laughed evilly.

A small splash of water landed on his skull, making him turn around.

“Oh, sorry!” Laura shouted from across the deck. “It was an accident.”

“You’re too far away for an accident!” Boney replied, standing up and pointing at her. “That was a challenge, wasn’t it? Come! This time, I will absolutely debone you!”

The ambitious skeleton had hosted a checkers tournament one night, expecting to win and make Jerry proud, but Laura prevailed effortlessly. Boney took second place, narrowly outsmarting Marcus, while Jerry came fourth, followed only by Headless. The rest had opted not to participate—Axehand played one round, lost catastrophically, then grunted and returned to drinking.

Boney had been practicing since then, but Laura refused to play him again.

“I’m sorry, my good skeleton,” she replied with a gentle smile. “I just don’t like this game.”

“Let’s just play once! When I defeat you, I will be satisfied.”

“You will never defeat me. Maybe you could try something else, like competitive evil chuckling.”

“It’s called cluckling!”

Boboar and Foxy oinked and yelped in laughter respectively, resting beside Laura—they didn’t necessarily understand the joke, but they enjoyed the company.

The hydromancer often used her magic to perform water shows, with her most frequent audience being these two skeletal animals. She would draw water out of her wooden flask and use it to form various shapes, from circles to humans, having them run and play and fight with each other.

It was a massive hit. If the Funny Bone ever returned to performing, they would certainly ask her to join.

An excited yell came from somewhere above, and Jerry turned to look with a smile. The four Billies were the ones who enjoyed the airship the most; they spent the majority of their time climbing the masts, jumping from perch to perch, or scaling the massive hot air balloon. They’d even recruited Birb into their games. The red-feathered zombie bird enjoyed flying around their heads, demonstrating its agility and mocking their lack of wings.

The Billies would jest and challenge each other to perform harder and harder stunts, taking to them like excited children in a playground. Their antics always brought a smile to Jerry’s face; they were experienced acrobats, and he’d asked them to put safety first, so they wouldn’t fall. Probably.

They were also learning to handle the sails; open and close them as needed, turn them to catch the wind, adjust the fuel valve to keep their height constant… Slowly but surely, the Billies were turning into wonderful sailors of the sky.

The intricacies of how this ship even worked were lost on Jerry. It had something to do with hot air in the balloon and then moving with the wind, as far as Marcus explained, but Jerry didn’t for one moment believe hot air could make you a bird.

I’ve met plenty of hot-headed people in my life, and none of them could fly… But, let’s not upset Marcus. Even if he’s got it wrong, it’s obviously working!

As for Jerry himself, he’d placed his heavenly soft chair by the airship’s railing—the windiest spot of the deck—soon after boarding and spent all of his time there. The cold never bothered him anyway. In the week they’d been traveling, he hadn’t stood once, except to rotate his chair when it was time to eat.

While resting his buttocks, he would watch the others go about their days, converse, or sleep. He often thought about Herald Maccain and the new aspects of necromancy he’d shown Jerry. It was a good reminder that there was much more to learn, and Jerry really looked forward to it. He tried to practice, though there was little he could achieve without instruction.

He also spent a good amount of time practicing his shoemaking craft—and after only one day of work, he’d handed Laura a pair of delicate sandals she hadn’t removed since. He wanted to paint them blue as well, but unfortunately, he had no paint.

“Food is ready, everyone!”

Marcus walked out of the second deck, holding a small pot, and everyone scrambled to get to the long table placed by Jerry’s chair—even the Billies, who slid down the masts with the agility of monkeys. Laura walked over at a moderate pace.

The airship had come with most amenities, all in reasonable condition. There were chairs, a long table, hammocks to sleep in, fuel barrels, and a stove, along with enough wood to operate it for a month, if used frugally. Count Decaron, for all his flaws, kept the airship properly equipped to travel at a moment’s notice—what a fine gentleman!

“There you go!” Marcus placed the pot in the center of the table, bringing out a set of wooden bowls and spoons.

“What delicacy have you made this time, Marcus?” Laura asked.

“It’s meat soup!” he said, with his lips and mustache smiling cheek to cheek. “I added a few extra ingredients this go around. Come on, try it!”

Jerry took a spoonful, blowing lightly before tasting it. His eyes widened.

“Marcus!” he cried out. “This is amazing!”

“Of course it is,” he said, winking. “We must enjoy food while we have it!”

Boney raised his skull in glee. “Oh boy, I can’t wait to let this one drip down my ribcage!”

“And whose fault is that?” Marcus raised a brow. “If you wanted to eat, you shouldn’t have become a skeleton.”

“Nobody asked for my opinion. Isn’t that right, Boboar?”

The skeletal double-boar oinked shyly—once upon a time, he’d ravaged the bandit that Tom Boney used to be, making him unusable as a zombie.

“Come on, everyone, let’s eat,” Jerry said, laughing. “We don’t want Marcus’s masterpiece to grow cold.”

Between chatting and laughing, they all grabbed spoons and fell on the pot as if starving. The undead and Jerry only ate a couple of spoonfuls for the taste—they didn’t need to eat, and the airship had limited amounts of food. Marcus and Laura were the ones actually eating, and they ravaged it.

Amongst his many skills, Marcus was an excellent cook.

All in all, journeying through the skies was a pleasant experience. The dangerous Dead Lands stretched below, while they just cruised above, having met zero problems so far.

“Hmm?” Jerry narrowed his eyes at the horizon. “Hey, what’s that?”

Between spoonfuls and bone puns, they turned to look. A black dot had just appeared in the distance, where the airship was headed—and a moment later, it increased in size.

Everyone forgot about the food and rushed to the airship’s front—even Jerry, whose bones creaked loudly as he stood up for nearly the first time in three days. He accompanied them with sounds of “ow, ow, ow.”

The Dead Lands were a mostly flat terrain sprinkled with dark forests and swamps, with only the occasional hill or rock outcropping disrupting the monotony. The grass was gray, and from this height, small figures could be seen aimlessly wandering the expanse, alone or in hordes—undead.

As if to pile on the ground’s monochrome monotony, the sky was almost perpetually covered in clouds, and the air tasted stale. The Dead Lands resembled a dying world, where death and twilight welcomed the senses.

Jerry had seen this sight a thousand times already, so he focused solely on the dot flying their way. Gradually, its shape cleared up. His eyes narrowed, then widened.

“Is that a whale!”

54

A MAJESTIC BIRD

Jerry rubbed his eyes. It didn’t help; he could still see a whale flying in the distance.

“That’s a whale,” Marcus noted.

“I would rub my eyes too… if I had any,” Boney said. Axehand grunted in amusement.

“What are you talking about? Everyone knows there’s flying whales,” Laura replied. “The question is, why is one here?”

“What? Where are they supposed to be?” Boney asked.

“Wait a moment!” Jerry exclaimed, excited. “Maybe it’s an undead!”

“Of course it bloody is, Jerry, we’re in the Dead Lands!” Marcus said.

As soon as they saw it, the whale saw them, too. It turned with a flick of its tail, now moving directly at them.

Boney’s jaw clacked nervously. “It’s friendly, right?”

“Maybe?” Jerry replied, cupping his chin. “Could we befriend it? I’d love a pet whale—I’ll name it Chunky.”

“I don’t think we can.” Laura narrowed her eyes, taking a step back. “Wild undead go berserk at the sight of the living.”

“Wait, you don’t mean…”

“I do. I think that whale is going to destroy our airship.”

Axehand was the first to react to this unsettling news, letting out an intrigued grunt, and Marcus erupted right afterward.

“MEN!” he shouted, running to the steering wheel. “Pull up the sails! We must turn the ship around AT ONCE!”

The Billies sprang into motion. Two climbed up the masts like monkeys while the other two pulled at ropes tied on the deck, making the front and back sails of the ship crease and begin folding in on themselves.

Marcus reached the wheel. “Everyone grab on to something!” he yelled, turning the knobs with all his strength. A flat block of wood rose from the ship’s starboard side, going from stuck to the hull to perpendicular against it, and blocked the wind, making the entire ship creak and moan as it turned sharply to the right. Checkerboards and chairs slid to the railing, some even raining to the Dead Lands below, and everyone grabbed on to whatever they could find to remain standing. Jerry held his chair with one hand and an upraised floor plank with the other, struggling to save his most precious possession.

“You’re going to kill us all!” Laura screamed, hugging the front mast.

The ship finished turning and Marcus straightened the wheel, letting the airship rock from side to side before calming. It flew slowly backward. “Men! Open the sails and blow into them if you must, we sail at full speed ahead!”

The Billies obeyed—they somehow hadn’t been flung off the masts—and the sails opened again. This time, the wind was diagonally against them, and the airship was slow. Marcus gritted his teeth.

“Manna-damn-it!” he cursed, letting go of the wheel. “Hold her steady, someone!”

Boney rushed to the wheel, holding it tight with both hands as Marcus dove for the center of the deck, where the fuel barrel was. Latching on to the valve, he yanked it. “Careful!” he yelled. The very next moment, the entire ship rattled as its nose turned downward.

“We’re falling!” Jerry shouted. “Marcus, we’re falling!”

“I know!”

“We’re going to die!”

“Silence!”

The airship descended, and as it did, it picked up speed. Everyone’s stomachs protested, then they suddenly felt lighter. The ship’s prow, which used to overlook the horizon, was now pointed directly at a grassy hill. A zombie turned to look at them from far below, tilting its head.

“Marcus!”

“Now!” he shouted, yanking the valve in the opposite direction. The ship creaked as its descent slowly came to a halt, finding themselves flying straight again, but much faster than before, cutting through the wind like deranged surfers.

“You madman!” Boney cried out. “You did it!”

“I’m your goddamn captain, of course I did it!” Marcus shouted, looking back over his shoulder. He paled. “Shit.”

Everyone turned. A colossal, majestic beast was chasing them, its tail flapping against the wind with terrifying force as it closed the distance. On its side, a terrifying red eye—they couldn’t see the other one—was pointed directly at them.

“Why the hell is it chasing us?” Jerry complained. “We didn’t do anything!”

“It’s a wild undead!” Laura gritted her teeth. “It won’t rest until it gets us! Marcus, can we outrun it?”

“Unlikely!” he shouted back. The airship was gradually losing speed. “We can’t repeat the same trick or we might crash. Gods-dammit!” His eyes flitted from side to side as he thought. “Men! Raise the sails again! We’re turning around!”

“Right at it?” Laura asked as the Billies hurried to raise the sails.

“Do you have a better idea?” Marcus thundered. “We can’t escape, but it looks fat as fuck! If we outmaneuver and get behind it, we will have the wind on our sails, and we might be able to escape!”

Axehand, who hadn’t budged during the turning and tossing before, grunted in excitement. He took a swig of wine.

“Hold on, everyone!”

The ship turned sharply again, prow now facing the whale. It was still far away, but with the two parties heading straight at each other, the distance was evaporating.

“Billies, at the sails! Boney, at the wheel! You must obey my orders the second I give them! I’ll be at the balloon, and everybody else… just do your best!” Marcus gave his final commands, preparing the ship for battle.

Axehand walked to the tip of the prow, steady beyond doubt, and grunted as he took another large swig from his flask. Headless, Boboar, and Foxy took up positions around Jerry, while Birb fluttered overhead, ready to do its best.

Jerry himself took a few deep breaths, preparing to use his soul against the whale’s. “An aerial battle…” he said, chuckling. “I never thought this day would come.”

“This isn’t a game!” Laura said, taking up position right beside him, where his undead would protect her, too. The stopper of her wooden flask popped out, releasing a large amount of water, and even more coalesced out of thin air in front of her. “Try to strike hard and fast,” she instructed Jerry. “Wild undead have frail souls. This one is too big to sever outright, but the more you can distract it, the better.”

“How do you know this stuff?”

“Just do it!”

They were going with the wind now, and their ship was slowly ascending as they advanced, forcing the whale to fly upward, too. “Slightly port side!” Marcus asked.

“What’s that?” Boney asked from the wheel.

“The left, gods-dammit! And when we reach the whale, prepare to turn sharply to the right.”

“Your right or my right?”

“We’re facing the same direction, Boney!”

Boney angled the ship to the left, forcing the whale to follow suit. They were rapidly approaching the point of impact. Everyone prepared themselves, and the closer they got, the better they could observe the whale.

It was a large hulking beast with a long mouth and wide flaps colored a mixture of black and blue; it was probably longer than the entire airship. Its underbelly was wrinkled as it gracefully slid through the air, and its jaws were wide open, ready to devour them all. It didn’t seem particularly injured, but at this range, there was no way Jerry could miss such a towering aura of undeath.

“How does it even fly?” Boney lamented. “It makes no sense!”

None of them had seen a whale before, let alone a flying one, and were lost in staring for a short moment.

“Look!” Jerry said. “There’s something on it!” Pieces of rotten wood were tied to the whale’s back, scattered across slick skin.

“Is that a mast?” Laura asked, shocked.

Marcus followed suit, “It’s a mast! And that one’s a piece of hull, and that piece of cloth is the remains of a sail. Holy shit. Was someone riding the whale?”

“I wonder who’s that awesome?” Jerry said.

“Can we please focus on not dying?” Boney asked from the steering wheel. “Awesome or not, that whale is about to ram us, and the ground is very far away!”

They closed the distance. The whale loomed larger and larger. The wooden remains on its back were obviously a shipwreck—once upon a time, someone had turned this whale into an airship much like their own.

But that detail was insignificant as the giant form towered over them. It was definitely larger than the airship, and its red eyes were filled with fury as it opened its mouth to roar outlandishly, revealing a dark, bottomless abyss.

“It’s going to eat us!” said Jerry.

“Marcus!” Boney cried out, hands trembling on the wheel. “We must turn!”

“Not yet!” the captain commanded, even as a collision seemed inevitable.

“Hold!” he repeated. Boney clenched his jaw. Jerry closed his eyes, feeling out with his soul. Suddenly, a large, angry, misshapen thing entered his range. His eyes snapped open.

Now!

“Now!” Marcus cried out, and Boney was already turning the wheel with the strength of every bone in his body and little else. The wooden air stopper snapped open, and the ship turned much sharper than before, its deck reaching such a steep incline that it nearly tipped.

The Billies held on to the masts as everyone grabbed whatever was stable for dear life. Headless’s one arm was wrapped around Jerry, whose hand was tight around the heavenly soft chair’s leg as his mind was elsewhere. A black aura escaped Jerry’s body as his eyes grew dark, and in his mind, the entirety of his soul slammed against the zombie whale’s with every bit of force he could muster.

In that single moment, time seemed to freeze, and Jerry sensed a large lump so chaotic and irrational that he knew there was absolutely no way for them to communicate. This creature wasn’t like his undead—it was a mindless bundle of destruction.

He was then flung back.

The whale roared in pain, and Jerry saw stars from the recoil; the sheer size of its soul had overwhelmed him, but he wasn’t defeated yet, and the whale’s mind went blank as its entire being struggled to resist him. Jerry kept going; they were still too close, and if the whale recovered now, it would smash them to pieces. Yet no matter how hard he tried, his power was waning.

There came the sound of splitting wind from above as a small shape darted down through the air. With an enraged chirp, Birb nosedived into the whale’s red eye, making the lumbering beast thrash and twitch, momentarily losing control and letting them escape. Jerry’s soul was ousted by its rage—undead felt no pain, but the instinctive shock and aversion to injury remained.

“Birb!” Jerry shouted, but the little bird had already flown away, drowned in black blood but safe and sound.

The airship was still turning sharper than it ever had, and it’d almost escaped the whale’s reach, but in its mad thrashing, a colossal fin was coming straight for them. “Master!” yelled Boney, pulling harder, but the wheel was already at its limit.

Just as the turn stabilized and the ship stopped inclining, Marcus yanked the fuel valve so hard it broke. A hissing sound escaped the pipe, and the balloon above them deflated as the ship dropped like a rock, narrowly missing the fin that flew overhead.

“No!” Marcus grabbed the pipe with both hands, struggling to turn the valve to the other side, but he couldn’t stop the escaping air. A bubble of water could. As the water formed a tight grip around the broken valve, the fall stabilized, and the ship managed to maintain its altitude.

“We did it!” Marcus yelled, looking at the beast that was helplessly flying past them. “We’re past the whale! Laura, hold the bubble! Billies, lower the sails so we can⁠—”

He looked above. His voice caught on his throat. Where he expected to see clouds, he only saw a dark tail slapping toward them, blotting out the sky. He hadn’t accounted for such flexibility.

The ship was stuck. They couldn’t dodge. Everyone paled.

As the tail fell on them, slapping with all the strength of an enraged whale, the entire ship shook as a lone figure jumped up with tremendous force.

Axehand crossed the air, a challenging grunt escaping his mouth as his entire body expelled red steam. He was burning, overcharged to the limit; before the whale’s tail, he looked minuscule.

The tail fell. And Axehand, with a tremendous roar, placed his two axes together and slashed them as one.

The following sight engraved itself in their memories forever. As the giant tail fell upon them, the sky was revealed. Behind a tiny, axe-wielding form, the massive tail, several times thicker than Axehand was tall, was cleanly sliced off, its twin tip flying off by itself.

Everyone’s jaws almost dislocated from dropping, and many eyes threatened to pop out of their sockets. In midair above the balloon, between the two halves of the severed tail, Axehand grunted cockily.

The severed tip was launched away by sheer momentum, missing the airship, while the tail stump whooshed past the airship, ushering a massive wind gust as it almost scratched the hull.

55

THE DEAD LANDS

The Mists of Death are taboo; none who enter return, or so we were told by the local death spirits. We intend to challenge that notion. We have brought wizards, warriors, equipment, knowledge, and experience; no matter what dangers lie inside, they will not faze us.

However, in the unlikely scenario that we do perish, we leave our travel log here for the future explorers of our glorious kingdom to find.

For Alabaster,

Casius Esteban and the 17th explorer team.

- A letter placed on a dusty, rotting notebook.

Axehand fell back on the deck, rocking the ship; and the whale, with its tail tip missing, released an ear-piercing bellow as its flight destabilized, heading away from them and unable to turn around.

“Open the sails!” Marcus yelled, returning to his senses. “We must ride the wind before the whale turns around! And Laura, don’t you dare let up!”

“I’m trying,” she replied through gritted teeth. Axehand looked over his shoulder, grunting a chuckle at everyone’s incredulous gazes, and the airship flew away. Behind it, the whale thrashed in midair, swinging its stump like mad as it struggled to balance without a tail. It rained thick, black blood.

Its bellows continued to fill their ears for a long time as the distance quickly increased. They were flying with the wind, and the whale could barely keep itself afloat, let alone turn around to chase them.

“We did it!” Jerry cried out, panting. “We survived!”

“Most of us were already dead, Master,” Boney said, cluckling a bit. “But yes. We made it.”

“Axehand…” Marcus made sure everything was in order before turning to the undead. “How did you even do that?”

The skeleton grunted, reaching for his steel flask, and taking another swig of wine.

“Axehand is super strong,” Jerry said. “And now, with this new overcharging trick, he’s even more so.”

“He sliced the entire tail apart,” Marcus said. “That’s way beyond the reach of his axes.”

“I have no idea either, but if it works, it works.”

“That makes no sense!”

“Neither do flying whales.”

“Can we focus, please?” Laura asked from the side, her voice strained. “The steam pressure is intense. I don’t know how long I can keep this up.”

“Do you mean we will fall to our deaths?” Boney asked, looking at the torn valve.

“Yes, so do something about it.”

“We must land immediately!” Marcus said. “Men, keep the sails half-open. Laura, can you release some of the fuel?”

“Maybe, but don’t expect smooth.”

“That’s fine. Everyone else, prepare for an emergency landing.”

“There’s a swamp over there!” Jerry yelled from the ship’s front. “We could land in it, but there’s a problem, Marcus!”

“What?”

“We don’t have a landing permit!”

Marcus gave him a blank stare. “This isn’t the time, Jerry. To the swamp!”

Laura dissolved and swiftly recreated her water bubble, letting some smoke hiss out and making the ship drop a few feet like a rock. Everyone found themselves flying, then slammed into the deck.

“Hang on to something,” she shouted, struggling to stay upright. Sweat trickled down her forehead. “This is the best I can do!”

“Boney, hold the wheel,” Marcus ordered, rushing to the prow. “I see a mud lake in the swamp; we’ll land there. Laura, lower us to thirty feet off the ground.”

“How the hell can I know that!”

“Keep going until I tell you!”

The ship kept dropping a few feet at a time, slowly but surely descending. The swamp grew in their vision. The tallest trees almost scratched the hull.

“That’s enough!” Marcus said, narrowing his eyes. “Billies, raise the sails fully. We need to slow down as much as possible.”

A ship’s momentum was hard to stop in midair. There were no breaks. It was supposed to slow gradually by air resistance, but that wasn’t currently fast enough. Thankfully, the airshipwrights made the wheel work by opening two flat blocks of wood at the right and left side of the hull respectively.

“Boney, prepare to turn right,” Marcus said. “Axehand, grab the left stopper and force it open when I tell you! You two must work together. With both stoppers open, we’ll slow down and have a chance at making it.”

Axehand stared back defiantly. He didn’t like being ordered around.

“Please!” the treasure hunter said, and the double-skeleton complied with a grunt. Reaching down from the left side of the deck, he grabbed the top of the stopper and prepared to pull.

“Are you ready?” Marcus said. “Three, two, one… Now!”

Boney turned the wheel at “one,” so the ship turned sharply right before Axehand acted. The stopper resisted as he pulled, clearly not meant to operate manually, but was unable to resist his strength; something gave way, and it swung open.

The ship rocked as it straightened and started losing speed fast, both stoppers acting as their name would indicate. The entire thing shook, its structural integrity failing.

“Keep them open!” Marcus said, trying to calculate the distance. “Laura, we’re thirty feet in the air. I’ll need three short bursts. Drop us in three, two, one… Now!”

The ship protested as it dropped, making everyone’s stomachs fly before they crashed into the deck. A moment later, the process was repeated, and by now, Jerry could see trees jutting out to their left and right. They were zooming by way too fast.

“I’m not sure this is a⁠—”

The water bubble disappeared. Steam hissed out of the valve’s hole as the airship landed in the mud, its hull crashing into the ground and dragging across it.

Everyone flew forward. Jerry rolled on the deck, almost crashing against the railing before Headless got in the way, taking the strike for his Master. Laura, too focused on controlling their descent, flew off before Axehand reached out with one hand, easily and gently stopping her flight.

Marcus cursed as he crashed against the base of the prow, while the Billies, somehow, remained glued to the masts. The entire ship groaned as its hull was grated off, and it toppled to the side.

The airship reached the end of the mud lake. Its prow tore into a thicket of short trees, uprooting some and locking the ship in place with a massive bang. Everyone fell off and into the mud lake.

Everything came to a standstill, and absolute silence ensued, echoing hard in their ears.

Marcus raised his upper body, taking a deep breath as he wiped the mud off his face; this small lake turned out to be less than a foot deep, and filled with floating waste—weeds, sticks, logs, and, most recently, broken planks.

“We survived…” he muttered and laughed. “Hah! Take that, Abdul and all your sand surfers. I told you I could fly an airship!”

“We survived, but I don’t think the ship did…” Jerry said, perfectly safe in Headless’s embrace. “It looks a bit broken. At least the gas barrels didn’t explode.”

The wooden airship was toppled on its right side. Its front was littered with holes, inflicted by the short trees it crashed on, and its mast lay broken in half. Its entire hull had been grated off, left in pieces in the mud lake, both stoppers were broken, and even the air valve was ruined.

The only part of the airship still standing was the hot air balloon, as it was higher up and had escaped tree impalement. Though empty, inner mechanisms kept it from deflating.

“How will we return it at this rate?” Jerry wondered aloud.

“What?”

“We borrowed the airship, remember? And you, you big goof…” He turned to Headless, whose head was missing, flung who-knows-where. “I could handle this fall myself. You didn’t need to do that.”

Headless did not respond whatsoever. He’d probably smiled, forgetting that his head was no longer with him.

“Is everyone okay?” Jerry asked. The undead surfaced one by one, shrugging off the mud, except for Axehand, who’d landed on his feet. He held Laura in a princess carry, taking care not to hurt her with his bones.

“You saved me. Thank you,” she said, smiling gently. “Can you let me down now? Not in the mud, please.”

Axehand grunted, placing her at the edge of the small mud lake. She turned to the others.

“Why are you lying down? Stand up already, we need to hide the airship. That whale could return at any moment.”

Axehand grunted in displeasure, while Jerry laughed.

“We should find Headless’s head first,” he said. “He can’t drown, but being buried in the mud must be unpleasant.”

Headless still didn’t respond—he was probably trying to nod. A moment later, he worked out the fact that his head wasn’t visible and gave a thumbs-up.

Marcus stood and looked over himself, completely covered in mud. He glared at the pristine Laura. She smiled back. Besides Laura and Axehand, the only clean thing was Jerry’s chair, which had flown all the way to the shore of the small lake and landed on a soft patch of bushes. Miraculously, it was still whole, if a bit cracked in places.

“Let’s get to work, everyone!” Jerry said, uncaring of the mud all over him. “We must find our friend’s head, then quickly hide the airship.”

“How do you propose we do that, Master?” Boney asked.

“By searching this mud lake until Headless winks at us.”

“I meant hiding the airship.”

“Oh. We could throw trees all over it, I guess?” Jerry looked at the ship’s prow, surrounded by uprooted short trees as it was—most barely reached six feet in height. “Axehand can help out; he’s very strong. He can also cut down some trees if we don’t have enough. He’s not the world’s greatest lumberjack for nothing.”

Axehand grunted in pride, proudly raising one axe into the air.

Marcus facepalmed before he could think better about it. “Oh, great. This is going to be annoying; I can feel it.”

It was. The mud lake might have been small for a lake, but it covered an area of over ten thousand square feet. Moreover, Headless couldn’t help them much as he couldn’t see anything. They all ended up trudging through the mud for a solid ten minutes, soaked beyond salvation, while Laura watched on from the side.

In the meantime, Axehand was throwing tree after tree over their fallen airship, hiding it from any eyes in the sky. When he ran out, he easily cut new trees with one swing each. He really was the world’s greatest lumberjack.

“I found something!” Jerry exclaimed.

“Is it the head?” Marcus asked.

“No, it’s a cool fish. Look!”

He proudly raised a small form into the air; it resembled a brown fish spine, except it was thrashing about.

“The Dead Lands even have skeletal fish,” he said, smiling.

“Better put that down, Jerry,” Marcus said, “or the little asshole will try to gnaw through your hand.”

“Nah, fish can’t do that. Look at how cute it is; I’ll name it Fishbone. What do you say, Fishbone? Wanna join us?”

The fish skeleton thrashed manically. Jerry could easily suppress its soul if he wanted to, but just like with the whale, he felt such overwhelming chaos in there that there was no way he could tame it.

“Oh well,” he said, throwing it back into the mud, “goodbye, Fishbone. Have a happy unlife.”

The fish swam away at top speed, almost instantly disappearing into the mud.

“Why didn’t it attack you?” Marcus asked again, straightening his body. “I thought wild undead were berserk.”

“No idea.”

“They’re aggressive, not completely suicidal,” Laura said. “If you’re clearly out of their league, they won’t attack.”

“You know a lot, don’t you?” Marcus raised a brow.

“I’m a well-read girl.”

“Sure.”

“I found the head!” Boney exclaimed, raising Headless’s head and bringing it close to his own. “Look, Master; with two heads, I’m double as smart.”

“That’s still zero,” Laura said, drawing a few puzzled looks that quickly turned into amused ones.

“My joke was funnier,” Boney said.

“It really wasn’t,” she shot back.

Axehand was just finished with his personal project, having laid dozens of trees on the airship already, and he rubbed his axes together in satisfaction for a job well done. Only a corner of the balloon was visible, but he’d covered it in mud to be discreet.

Jerry smiled. “Great job, Axeha—Wait, is that log moving?”

On a floating log right next to Axehand, something shone like a row of gems. They were teeth. The mud erupted as a large, reptilian form lunged out.

56

AN UNLIVELY SWAMP

A massive form erupted from the mud, splattering brown everywhere as it lunged for Axehand’s waist. Jerry’s eyes widened.

This was a zombie crocodile. It stretched at least six feet long, its mouth alone taking up two, and its body was almost perfectly preserved, including its fierce teeth.

If it took hold of Axehand, this menace would violently shake him from side to side, tearing his body apart and breaking his bones. Moreover, while zombies lost some speed compared to their living counterparts, they retained most of their strength.

This particular crocodile had missed the memo. When it lunged out of the mud, it was so fast it blurred.

The reptilian form zoomed at blinding speed, an open, serrated mouth heading directly for Axehand—and the double-skeleton slapped it into the ground so hard that the mud parted in its wake, all teeth breaking as the crocodile’s mouth was clamped shut.

Axehand grunted in annoyance, then returned to his job as if nothing had happened. The crocodile stayed still.

“What an unlucky creature,” Jerry said, shaking his head. “Why would it even attack Axehand? He’s all bones.”

“Move, Master!” Boney cried out, rushing over at full speed. “Head for the shore, fast! There might be more of them!”

Jerry looked to the side. Twenty feet away, another log showed teeth. He’d never run faster in his life.

Everyone—except Axehand, who happily went about his job—found shelter on the mud lake’s shores, inching as far away from the mud as possible.

“How devious…” Laura muttered. “A foot of mud is enough for crocodiles to hide in… Who would have thought.”

“I knew those logs were suspicious!” Boney lamented. “I put you in danger, Master… I deserve to die. Oh, wait—I already have.” He cluckled, finding his joke hilarious.

“We were very lucky to escape unscathed,” Marcus said, looking around with narrowed eyes. “Let’s not forget we’re in the Dead Lands. Any unturned stone could hide danger, so keep both eyes out.”

“Aye, Captain,” Jerry said. “By the way, Laura, we’re caked in mud, and you’re a hydromancer.”

“Say no more.” She smiled, willing the water to flow out of her flask and give everyone a flash shower, pulling most of the mud away.

“Much better.” Jerry smiled back. “Now, since we’re clearly stranded here, should we look for a safe place to set up camp?”

Marcus crossed his arms. “Not necessarily stranded. We might be able to repair the airship given a few days.”

“Even the hull?” Laura asked.

“Of course,” Boney replied. “The hull is vital for airships, or the wind could get in.”

She threw him a scalding glare.

“Just the valve, the mast, and the air stoppers,” Marcus explained. “We can live without the hull—repairing it would take more skill and time than we have, anyway.”

“All I hear is camping time,” Jerry said. “I can handle that. Not to brag, but I once spent six months in the forests by myself.”

Marcus turned his head. “Impressive, but why?”

“To relax.”

“Alright.”

“We don’t have tents,” Laura noted. “Or bedrolls. Or any sort of equipment.”

“But we do have rope and a convenient swamp to extract materials from,” Jerry replied, already observing the thicket. “Let’s get going. We should be ready by nightfall.”

“We shouldn’t all go,” Marcus said. “I can stay here to inspect the damage, but I’ll need Axehand to protect me from the crocodiles. I could use a couple of Billies too, to help with carrying stuff.”

“You can have them all,” Jerry replied. “Me, Boboar, Foxy, Boney, and Headless… This is almost like the good old times, when we’d just started fixing up the tower. Isn’t that right, guys?”

“Almost, yes…” Boney lowered his head. “I am really happy to accompany you, Master.”

“So am I, Boney; so am I. Now come on, let’s go. What will you do, Laura?”

“I’ll come with you,” she said. “The further I am from these supersonic crocodiles, the better.”

“I don’t think they’re supersonic.”

“That’s what it felt like.”

“Are you going to be okay?” Marcus asked. “This swamp seems dangerous.”

“We’ll be fine,” Jerry reassured him. “We’ll have me, Laura, and all these undead, plus Birb watching us from above.”

“That’s right.” Laura nodded. “Can we go, please? The more time we have, the better a camping spot we’ll find.”

“Sure.” Jerry smiled, waving back. “See you, Marcus, Billies! Protect them well, Axehand!”

The treasure hunter nodded, as did the Billies, while Axehand’s response was a reassuring grunt. With that, Jerry’s team faced the swampland.

The Dead Lands were perpetually enveloped in twilight. Ozborne’s Curse had sunk its fangs deep into the land, poisoning everything that was alive and some that were not. The grass, the clouds; even the sky itself was tinted a shade of gray that the sun barely shone through, giving the impression that this world was slowly but inevitably reaching its end.

However, there was always beauty in death. The swamp may not have been vibrant and bursting with life, but it felt mystical. The trees sat enveloped in silence, with very few animal cries disturbing the peace, and even the wind was tamer here. Amidst the silence and stillness, Jerry found himself unconsciously holding his breath, taking in the deafening serenity of this magical sight.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked.

“It is, Master…” Boney replied. “I’m not sure why, exactly, but this place somehow reminds me of you.”

“It does?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm…”

Jerry looked at the sparse trees again, slim and bent by their own weight. Off-brown branches hung down as if to wipe the soft soil, while roots occasionally rose to meet them. A light fog blanketed the swamp, hindering their sight after a certain distance, and the air smelled lightly of dampness.

As they observed, a few gray lights flickered high above, dancing and chasing each other through the air. They twirled around Laura once before flying away—they were zombie fireflies, an entire host of them.

“Do you think I could tame one?” Jerry asked.

With a sigh, Laura drew her gaze from the departing fireflies. “Can we get going, dum-dums? I thought we were in a hurry.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Your crudeness kills me—oh wait, I’m already dead.”

They dove into the trees, Foxy and Boboar rushing ahead; after so long in foreign environments, a forest—or a swamp—felt like home. Both animals made happy yelps and oinks, fondly looking back to the times when they and Jerry toured the forests and mountains of Escarbot.

Jerry himself strolled calmly, while Headless remained close by, moving his head left and right to stay vigilant of any threats. Boney and Laura walked behind them, not speaking for once.

The trees remained bereft of life, no danger presenting itself. Though that wasn’t to say the swamp was empty.

They walked for half an hour, and in that time, came across several kinds of undead. A few small, zombie birds darted from branch to branch, cocking their heads at the group—they even played with Birb a bit when it curiously approached and pecked at one.

There were skeletal birds, too. The form of wild undead—whether they became skeletons or zombies—seemed to be mostly determined by their species, which was an intriguing observation. Was there a reason why the Curse worked like this?

These skeletal birds couldn’t fly, of course, as they had no wings. They’d developed another means of movement: hopping—and watching little birds move around with tiny leaps was as cute as it was hilarious.

Once, Laura squealed and tried to pick one up, only to hurriedly step back when the bird regarded her with a creepy, empty gaze. That was a valuable lesson; the fauna of the Dead Lands might not be wholly aggressive, but they remained dangerous, even in the smallest, most harmless creatures. That little bird wouldn’t hesitate to peck her eyes out if given the chance.

It was a scary realization; and, at the same time, one that added to the brutal beauty of these lands.

“I still can’t believe it.” She pouted a few minutes later, seeing another skeletal bird hop past them, heading who knows where. “I only wanted to hug it.”

“But maybe it didn’t want to hug you,” Boney said, picking up the hopping bird; he was a skeleton too, so besides a curious stare, it didn’t resist at all. “See? It likes me.”

“Well, you’re equally brainless. Maybe that’s why.”

“We’re also equally skinny. Maybe that’s why.”

Her eyes widened. “You did not just say that!”

“Oh look, a tree,” Jerry said, walking right in front of them. “It’s like all the others we’ve seen. What an interesting conversation topic!”

“Hmph,” Laura snorted, shaking her head once before dropping the issue. “How’s the camp-searching, Jerry? Seen a good place yet? Because I haven’t.”

“Yeah, neither have I.” The necromancer scratched his head. “The forests of Escarbot were much easier to work with. Here, everything’s damp and muddy. We might have to explore a little more before we find a suitable location.”

“How much more?”

“Dunno. A week?”

“Yeah… Thank Hydra we started early. Still, let’s hope we find something fast. I would rather not walk too much.”

“Why?” Jerry asked curiously, turning around. “It’s not like anything changes the more you walk.”

“I get bored and tired.”

“Oh, right. I can turn you into an undead if you want—then, you’ll just be happy all day long and skinnier.”

She blinked rapidly. “I can’t believe you.”

Tom and Jerry high-fived. “Nice one, Master!”

“Heh. I was just kidding, Laura; you’re, like, super fit, and also stunningly beautiful.”

“Of course I am.”

“Oh, look, Master!” Boney said, pointing at a nearby tree’s branches. “See that bird?”

Everyone looked over. “Yes.”

“Well, look closer; it’s actually a plant!”

“What?” Jerry squinted at it. “Oh!”

They were looking at a brown zombie bird just like all the others, except its form was perfectly still—and, on closer inspection, it was not a bird at all, just a plant shaped as one. It sported multiple stems in different shades of brown, all wrapped around each other to resemble a bird’s standing body. Its black eyes were some kind of twin-headed flower, and a small network of roots stretched all the way from its feet to the tree’s trunk, where they dived into it.

It could never hold up to scrutiny, but this plant could be mistaken for a bird at a passing glance.

“Wow,” Jerry exclaimed. “That’s really interesting. Why would a tree do this?”

“Maybe it’s carnivorous and wants to lure prey, Master,” Boney said, cupping his bone chin. “What kind of prey, though? Hmm. Is this bird-plant meant to attract potential mates?”

“Can zombies even reproduce?”

“Some can,” Laura said, raising a brow at Jerry. “For a necromancer, you’re oddly uninformed.”

“And you’re the exact opposite.”

“I told you, I’m a well-read girl.”

“In any case,” Boney said, patting the trunk, “no matter what trick this little tree is trying to pull, it’s too dumb for us.”

The trunk’s gnarls formed into open eyes. Roots circled around Boney’s feet while branches shook, slowly moving to encircle him.

“Oh, shit!” Boney backpedaled furiously, or tried to, ending up falling on his bone butt. He raised his hands in panic. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! You’re not dumb, I am!”

The branches did not stop their advance, and more roots began to snake up his body.

“Boney!” Jerry shouted. A black aura left his body as he slammed his soul force against the tree, trying to sever its threads. He partially succeeded; many branches and roots went still, while the rest recoiled in pain.

Headless dropped his head and fell on the roots still binding Boney, as did Foxy, frenziedly pulling and cutting them as best they could. As for Boboar, he did what boars do best; with an enraged oink, he rammed headfirst against the tree, shaking it to the core and making its flexible branches wave through the air.

With the tree no longer resisting, Boney was soon cut loose, and he hurriedly crawled backward until he was by Jerry’s side.

“Oh, thank you, Master, thank you!” he exclaimed, shakingly climbing to his feet. “You saved me!”

“Well, it wasn’t that difficult.” Jerry smiled. “Just scary.”

“Yeah, all you lost was your dignity,” Laura said, giggling behind her hand. “You admitted to being dumber than a tree.”

“I was just trying to trick it!”

“Let’s pay more attention, okay?” Jerry said, eyeing the trees around him with suspicion. “There might be more hidden dangers here, and there is no guarantee the next one will be as easy to deal with.”

On cue, a sharp sting of danger reached him through his connection to Birb, and he looked up only to find a snake’s rotten maw inches away from his face. Before he could even think to react, an arrow whistled by, piercing the snake midair and nailing it to the tree behind Jerry.

“Who are you,” a hoarse voice said, “and what are you doing in my swamp?”

They turned, and there stood a humanoid figure as pale as paper, but with dark eyes, hair, and teeth. Laura screamed.

57

THE AKSHIK TRIBE

Jerry, Laura, Boney, Headless, Boboar, and Foxy stood face-to-face with a bow-wielding, creepy-looking creature. It resembled a human, except its skin was paper-white and everything else was pitch-black, the kind that seemed to absorb your sight and everything around it.

Shoulder-length black hair accentuated its pale face with robust features, while black teeth—when the creature opened its mouth—served for an almost appalling antithesis. Its eyes were like the night. This color composition could easily be considered artistic if not for the sheer terror it caused.

The creature held a bow in one hand and the tail of a nocked arrow in the other. It wore studded leather, brown with gray splashes, complete with pants, gloves, and a vest, while its feet were covered in a sturdy-looking pair of boots. More importantly, its body was taut to the point where it seemed packed to the brim with muscles ready to explode at a moment’s notice.

This creature’s body wasn’t bulky, but slim and wiry. Built to fight.

“You are foreigners,” it observed in its hoarse voice, and these words shook everyone out of their stupor. As one, the undead rushed to get between Jerry and the creature, glaring at it with passion—especially at the tip of its arrow.

“We mean no harm,” Laura said, raising her arms.

“Neither do I,” the creature replied, evenly meeting the undeads’ glares. “If I did, it would be your necromancer nailed to that tree.”

The undeads’ hostility only increased, but they did not move.

“You saved me,” Jerry said, gaze alternating between the deader-than-dead snake and the odd creature. “Thank you, my new friend. I’m Jerry.”

“And I’m Horace,” it replied. “Could you order your undead to stop staring at me? They make my hands twitchy, and I wouldn’t want to accidentally shoot anyone.”

“I can’t order them, but I can certainly ask them. Could you please calm down, guys?”

The crimson flames in Boney’s eyes flickered. “Only when that monster lowers its bow, Master.”

“That monster does not enjoy being referred to that way,” the creature said, pointing its arrow downward. “I advise you to keep that in mind, skeleton.”

Seeing this peaceful gesture, the undead visibly relaxed. “I will do my best,” Boney replied, “though my skull is empty.”

The creature blinked, then chuckled. “That’s better.”

“Excuse me.” Laura took a small step forward, arms still raised. “Who are you?”

“Horace of the Akshik tribe. It is your turn to reply now, strangers; who are you, and what are you doing in my swamp?”

“I’m Jerry,” the necromancer repeated his introduction, “and these are Boney, Headless, Boboar, and Foxy. Laura, too, though she can probably introduce herself. We crash landed in your swamp.”

“Crash landed?” The creature—Horace—frowned deeper. “What does that mean?”

“We were flying, then our airship broke, and we were forced to land in your swamp. We’re looking for a suitable place to camp until we can repair it.”

Laura threw Jerry a side glance as if he’d given away too much information. He ignored her; this odd-looking creature just saved him from a zombie snake’s attack, so the least it deserved was honesty.

Besides, it wasn’t like he’d said everything.

“So, that sound before was caused by you,” Horace said.

“If by ‘sound’ you mean a large airship dragging against the ground before crashing into a bunch of trees, then probably, yes.”

“Jerry,” Laura said calmly, still with her arms raised, “maybe you should show some more respect? This gentleman has a bow.”

Jerry chuckled. So did the odd creature.

“You can relax, girl,” Horace said. “Despite my looks, I’m not a monster.”

“Tell me about it,” Jerry agreed, nodding.

Hesitantly, Laura lowered her arms. “Very well, sir.”

“You can all call me Horace,” he said. “Now, please, continue. You are clearly not from here. What are you doing in the Dead Lands?”

“I am here to lift the Curse,” Jerry said, and Horace’s brows fell.

“Lift the Curse?”

“Exactly. Many people die at the Damn Wall every day, and good necromancers are abhorred everywhere because of one man’s mistakes. I’m going to make things right.”

Horace’s brows dropped even lower. “You are delusional and disrespectful. One man’s mistake? You don’t even understand the Curse, yet you claim to solve it, and not even for the right reasons. My people’s struggles don’t even register in your eyes.”

Jerry stood in silence, his thoughts turning a mile a minute. “Yeah,” he finally said, “maybe I spoke too rashly. However, I really do plan to lift the Curse, or at least do my best.”

“Then, I wish you luck,” Horace replied dryly, turning to Laura. “And you? Are you trying to resolve the Curse as well?”

“I would love that, but I’m just running away from some people. Who would say no to a free excursion into the Dead Lands?”

He regarded her evenly. “Do you have wood nettle?”

“I do.”

“And do you know how to use it?”

“I do.”

“Hmm.” He squinted. “Are you a wizard too?”

“A hydromancer.”

“I see,” he replied, black brows rising again. “That’s excellent.”

“How so?”

“Let’s discuss this later.”

“Very well. Now, pardon me for asking,” Laura continued, “but do you know of any good places to camp in? Dusk will be falling soon, and the air is oddly chilly here…”

“Speak out of your teeth, girl.” Horace laughed—a pleasant sound. “You are neither the first nor the last travelers to pass by this place. So long as you don’t overstep your welcome, the Akshik tribe will host you.”

Laura’s smile blossomed. “Thank you very much, Horace,” she replied, bowing slightly.

“I could have definitely found a good spot, though…” Jerry mumbled.

Horace placed his bow behind his back, removing his gloves and revealing two pale hands with black nails. “Is there anyone else you should notify?”

Jerry nodded. “A few people, yes. We left them by the airship.”

“You may go, then. I’ll wait here.”

“No need, we can all wait here. I’ve let my undead know to come, and I sent Birb to guide them, too.”

“Birb?” Horace looked at the sky.

“You can’t see it, it’s flown away already.”

Horace snorted.

Laura smiled. “While we’re waiting, you mentioned something about my being a hydromancer and how it was interesting…”

“Save your words. You will not discuss that with me.”

“But with whom?”

“My grandmother.”

The Akshik tribe was unexpectedly tidy.

Deep into the swamp was a drier piece of land than most, surrounded by mossy weeds and invasive lichen. A dozen drywood huts were arrayed in a circle; their roofs were made of wide leaves glued together by mud, while the gaps in the huts’ walls were filled in with the same material.

These people seemed to enjoy circles. Not only were the huts placed in one, but the buildings themselves were round in shape, as were their windows, and, to a lesser extent, their doors. Jerry appreciated the effort; round stuff was harder to build than square ones.

A large bonfire lay dormant at the very center of the tribe, surrounded by cleanly-cut logs, on which more tribespeople rested.

“Why don’t you have a fence?” Jerry asked.

“Because we don’t need one,” Horace replied. “We are the hunters here.”

These people’s appearances were more important than the apparent lack of a fence. They were all paper-white with black hair, eyes, teeth, and nails, much like Horace, making for quite an unsettling imagery. In a way, they were even scarier than zombies.

“You’re odd,” Jerry noted, looking left and right. “How come you’re all colored the same?”

Laura struck him with a glare, but Horace didn’t appear to mind.

“It is the Curse,” he replied. “It left nothing untouched.”

The tribespeople had noticed them by now, and they congregated around the newcomers—not with suspicion, but with curiosity. Laura shrank into the group, trying to make herself as unnoticeable as possible. Jerry himself didn’t mind, but he could understand her wariness.

“Who are these people, Horace?” a man asked.

“Foreigners,” he replied. “From the kingdoms.”

“Wonderful! You have many stories to tell us, yes?”

Jerry blinked when he realized the man was speaking to them. “Sure. A whole bunch.”

The tribespeople smiled, revealing sets of pitch-black teeth under pale lips. It would have seemed predatory if not for Jerry sensing their peaceful souls.

Oh! he realized. Is this how people feel around me?

These creatures seemed terrifying, foreign, and ready to tear you apart, but their welcome was the warmest he’d met in a long while. It was just another instance of appearances being deceptive.

“What is this place?” Marcus muttered, raising his head to inspect the tall trees overhead—they reached much higher here compared to the rest of the swamp, creating a dense foliage that blocked the view of the sky while allowing some light to seep through.

Like the rest of the swamp, this place was covered in twilight, and hosts of gray dots danced in the air above—were they fireflies, or butterflies?

“This is our home,” Horace said, a hint of bittersweet pride in his voice. “The home of the Akshik tribe.”

“I think it suits you,” Jerry said.

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

Horace smiled. His original wariness had decreased, replaced only by the warmth of a good host.

“Make way, everyone,” he said, still smiling. “You will have time to meet these people later. Now, they need to talk to Granny.”

A woman smiled. “Don’t you dare hog them, Horace. We want to hear their stories!”

Everyone laughed and began to disperse, sneaking glances while returning to their jobs.

No, not their jobs, Jerry thought.

These black-and-white people weren’t working or doing anything practical. Instead, they were huddled around the empty bonfire in small groups.

Some stood before a taut white skin—looked like deer hide—and held colored brushes; taking a second look, the piece of skin they were looking at was already covered in faint drawings.

A few others were gathered in a circle, one person banging a set of drums at regular intervals and the rest swaying their bodies to the rhythm, each in their own movements.

In another group, the people were just sitting around and talking, but on closer inspection, only one spoke, and she was gesturing animatedly as the rest listened with rapt attention.

Painting, dancing, and storytelling. Hidden deep inside a dead swamp, these terrifying people were practicing the arts.

“You seem very cultured,” Jerry said, nodding as they walked.

“When survival becomes trivial, people turn to the arts,” Horace replied.

They reached a hut placed closer to the large bonfire than others, and Horace stood silent for a moment before slightly parting the entrance flap—a piece of hanging skin—to reveal a dark interior.

“Go in,” he said. “She’s waiting for you.”

Jerry resisted the urge to spread his soul sense inside; though he was used to it by now, inspecting another person’s home felt unbecoming.

“We are too many,” he observed.

“Then, only those who can talk should enter.”

“Do grunts count as talking?”

Horace frowned. “You decide.”

“Alright. Come on, guys—you too, Axehand. The rest should wait here, please.”

The undead nodded, most remaining behind while Boney and Axehand followed Jerry in the hut. Laura and Marcus stepped in right after them, finding themselves in total darkness. The windows were blocked by soft fur, letting only a few thin rays of light infiltrate the hut, barely enough to illuminate a red candle and the edge of a bed.

The flap closed behind them. They waited just inside the entrance. Nobody spoke, until Boney broke the silence.

“Sublime illumination.”

“Patience, Boney,” Jerry said, smiling calmly. “Your eyes will adjust, and then, you will see.”

“But I have no eyes, Master.”

They waited. Time flowed by unobstructed, all of them losing themselves in the timelessness of this place until, slowly, more shapes appeared in the darkness.

There was a table under the red candle, and a chair beside it. The bed was covered by thick blankets, weaved by wool of unknown origin, and at its very end lay a figure so desperately weak and small that Jerry’s soul fluttered.

It was a woman whose wrinkled, pale-white skin stood out in the darkness. Jerry followed the silhouette to her eyes, black holes sucking in his sight—he couldn’t even make them out, but as soon as he gazed into their darkness, the woman smiled, or so he thought; though her teeth were black, he could see the whiteness of her skin rise to her cheeks.

It was a wide smile, and one filled with tenderness.

“Welcome,” came a voice, elderly but louder than anticipated, “to the land of the dead.”

58

GRANNY’S VISION

The old woman’s voice rang out, steeped in the mirth of old age. It was fleshy and wet, as it turned out she had no teeth, bringing a chill to those who heard it. She also spoke slowly, pausing every once in a while to breathe.

Through the darkness, Jerry could tell she had a few tattoos on her arms, but he couldn’t make them out.

“Welcome to the land of the dead,” she said, smiling.

“The pleasure’s all ours, Granny,” Jerry replied. “Though I have to say, this place doesn’t seem that bad.”

A toothless grin met his comment.

“Your eyes are closed still, young necromancer.” She took some time to wet her lips. “But to open them, you shall be tested.”

“Tested?”

“Yes… No unworthy feet…” another pause, “…shall tread the home of our people. The soul of your leader will be proven worthy. Who is it?”

“Jerry,” Marcus replied quickly. Laura and Boney also agreed, while Axehand grunted in affirmation.

“I don’t⁠—”

“Let me in, young one,” Granny said, and Jerry felt a foreign soul approach his. It was oddly familiar, like a long-lost sibling. It was small and weak like a candlelight’s final flickers before extinguishing, but at the same time, hosting depths so mysterious and vibrant that Jerry was awed.

The foreign soul probed at his, knocking on his door, seeking to enter. It couldn’t force its way in—weak as the body that held it—but Jerry obediently opened the gates of his mind wide and surrendered himself.

There was no hesitation; such a small soul had bared itself before his, and extinguishing it forever would have taken only a thought. If Granny dared trust him with so much, how could Jerry not do the same? After all, she felt like a pretty good person.

A chuckle came from Granny’s side at Jerry’s blind trust; and, in the next moment, his world fell apart.

Jerry stood on a plain, a carpet of bright grass flowing with the wind. The breeze was pleasant, caressing his skin with a gentle touch, and the crisp creek that snaked through the plain was music to the ears.

A village was visible in the short distance, with tufts of gray smoke wafting above straw and wooden houses; even soft singing could be heard, drafting over from a slowly rotating watermill beside the creek. The sun was shining, the birds chirping, and Jerry wanted to lie down and enjoy it—which was exactly what he did.

He couldn’t really remember why he was here, but it was a nice place, so everything should be fine. He lay on the cool grass and placed his hands behind his head, letting the soft blades tickle his back as he inhaled deeply, enjoying the simple fact that he was alive.

Unfortunately, the serenity was short-lived.

A tremendous roar shook the earth. Jerry’s eyes snapped open.

A creature stood on the peak of a faraway mountain, its humanoid body made of stones and standing so tall it dwarfed the mountaintop beneath it. Its feet shone green. The village residents had exited their houses, pointing at the form and shouting in fear, but there was nothing they could do.

A second roar came. The earth shook grandly, fissures cracking the grass as pieces of land rose and fell. The creek spilled into a dark void, letting fish jump helplessly in its former bank, and the watermill groaned as it collapsed, burying a screaming woman underneath it.

Jerry barely kept his balance as the earth below him titled, sliding stones and dirt into the dark void below everything; an insatiable, impenetrable pit. He glanced up in worry; what could he do? Nothing. He was simply a normal man, maybe able to wield a hoe better than most, but definitely not qualified to stand up to a godlike being.

A shrill sound came from high above, like nails scratching glass. Jerry looked up, and his jaw threatened to fall. Any hope of resistance fled his mind, replaced only by despair and hopelessness. In the face of such forces, he was nothing but a speck of dust, completely and utterly helpless.

In the sky above him stood a second being, an angel radiating bright light and holiness. Its actions were anything but. Under its control, the sunlight coalesced into hard blades, tearing through the heavens in wide swipes as if hating them. The sky was grated like cheese, strips of blue tumbling to the ground to reveal the endless darkness above.

The earth shook still, breaking into small islands as more and more of it disappeared into the bottomless pit of darkness below, and even the sky’s strips fell prey to it, sinking into the darkness with sizzling sounds.

One strip even landed beside Jerry, and it smelled of flowers before sliding into the void.

The earth was crumbling under Jerry’s feet, and as the sky was torn apart, it cried out in pain with such ferocity that Jerry’s ears bled and all other sounds vanished.

The world was ruined.

Soon, not much was left. There was darkness above and below, even across the horizon, and the only things remaining were Jerry and half the village. He grabbed his head with both hands as he fell to his knees; such catastrophe was more than he could bear, and the sheer scale of these events challenged his understanding of the world so deeply that it hurt, his sense of identity stripped away just like the sky.

It was a uniquely torturous feeling, one he almost lost himself in, when something drew his gaze upward again; a pulling sensation deep inside him. A black dragon had arrived from the darkness beyond the sky, and under its command, that darkness spread out. Jerry sensed his soul pulled toward the void, and he struggled to keep it in through sheer willpower.

Many villagers didn’t. They collapsed as their souls streaked through the sky and into the waiting void. Those who remained were terrified. Even through the crumbling earth and raining sky, under the strain of holding onto their souls, they tried to run. From the darkness under the earth, magma spewed out, large rocks which shook the world both when they launched and landed. Magma flowed where the river used to be, villagers melting in its clutches. A giant crawled out of the depths, its body made of magma, a living volcano.

Four apocalypses erupted simultaneously, and their harbingers watched: a stone golem, a bright angel, a black dragon, and a magma giant. The village—and Jerry with it—were doomed.

Until something changed.

A man appeared ahead of Jerry. A simple person, clad in flowing fabrics and with long dark hair. Jerry couldn’t see the person’s face, but his stance indicated confidence in the face of the Gods. He cracked his knuckles.

The Gods shouted something when they saw him, but Jerry couldn’t understand their words. The man’s were easier.

“Prepare for a beating,” he said, laughing rowdily. As that laughter echoed, flowers bloomed over the ruined land, as did courage in the hearts of all who heard it. Jerry believed in that man, wanted to follow him to the end of the world. The beings above might have been Gods, but this was the true king of humankind.

The man, his face still hidden from Jerry, moved. He grabbed the cracked pieces of land and reconnected them. He tossed the strips of sky back up, where they magically fell into place to hide the darkness, and he blew at the rivers of magma, extinguishing them and turning them into water. Even people’s souls were stabilized as he appeared—Jerry no longer struggled to keep his in place. The pull was minimized.

The Gods weren’t going to take this lying down. They charged the man. He laughed and faced them. Forces beyond Jerry’s understanding clashed. The man slapped the magma golem, stared at the black dragon until it retreated, stepped on the golem, and dueled the angel. He pushed them back, but for all his power, they were Gods. The world itself favored them, reigniting their powers, and the man was brought to an impasse, no longer laughing.

“You were wrong to challenge us!” the stone golem shouted—its voice was vaguely feminine. With a tug of its will, all the remaining villagers besides Jerry were pulled into the sky, their bodies assembled into the shape of an arrow even as the people themselves screamed. The arrow flew at the man.

A bellow left his lips. Grief. He punched out, smashing the arrow apart, saving himself but destroying the villagers he’d come to rescue. He was no longer laughing—his form exuded anger and righteous hatred.

The Gods laughed at this. They ceased their assault and turned to leave. The man didn’t try to stop them, but he shouted at their backs: “In the name of humanity, you will perish!” It rang in Jerry’s ears like a prophecy. The Gods paid no heed. They disappeared beyond the horizon.

The man remained to repair the ruined land. The sky was stitched back together, the cracked earth connected anew. The voids of sky and earth were hidden away. Even the village and the crumbling mountaintops were repaired. The river flowed smoothly, the watermill rotating by itself. The only remnant of this divine battle was the empty village, as, apparently, not even this man could restore taken lives.

Only after he was done rebuilding did the man turn to Jerry, who simply stood there, forgotten by even himself. Even now, the man’s face was hidden—as if Jerry simply didn’t qualify to see it.

“You’ve seen my battle,” the man said. “You did not run, which is commendable. But will you stand beside me? Will you attain the power of a God and fight our war? Can you make the decisions I’ve made?”

Jerry’s heart was trembling. He felt as if dreaming.

A God… he thought. Me, a God?

The longer the man stood there, the more his mind returned, allowing him to think.

To rule the world, to wield might unsurpassable, to make evil bow under my feet… To vaporize mountains and seas as if they were nothing, to have such power that people are sacrificed like ants for the greater good…

Half were his thoughts, the others weren’t. The man’s frown deepened. “There are many who would sacrifice everything for this opportunity. If you don’t want it, just speak the word.”

Jerry gulped. His mind raced, but then it lightened, and he exhaled the heavy air as he realized the truth.

He could do without godhood. Maybe the man could have saved those people, or maybe he was forced to sacrifice them as he did, but Jerry didn’t need difficult questions. All he wanted was to lie on the soft grass, smell the wet soil, and have a light heart. He wanted a simple, happy life, to have friends, and to enjoy what the world had to offer. Immortality… He did not need it.

He would help when needed, but since there were other candidates to becoming Gods, let them. It honestly sounded like a burden. Jerry was content just being himself.

“You know what?” he said with a smile. “I think I’ll pass.”

The man’s eyes widened, but before he could respond, the world cracked before Jerry’s eyes, and everything disappeared. He stood in a dark hut, surrounded by friends and an amused soul touching his.

“Those were some grand images, Granny,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Were they real?”

“Does it matter? The important thing is that you’ve seen yourself; you are soft, but the world is harsh.”

“That’s not a problem.” Jerry’s smile didn’t waver. “The harsher the world, the softer my chair.”

Granny’s pitch-black eyes looked Jerry over.

“Nothing is simple… but everything can be.” She paused longer than the previous times. Jerry felt her soul shudder; clearly, she was exhausted. “I pray that your heart remains pure, young one. Now go; let me recover, please.”

“Sure thing. See you, Granny.”

Jerry turned to leave, and the others, after waiting a moment, followed.

“Jerry?”

“Master…”

Grunt.

Jerry chuckled, ignoring them for now.

A hanging fur served as the door to Granny’s hut, and Jerry pulled it open to step back into the twilight swamp. Horace waited before the hut, a large crowd behind him. The moment he saw Jerry, he smiled widely.

“Granny has accepted you. That’s wonderful! Let us, the death spirits of the swamp, accept you as our guests!”

59

DEATH SPIRITS

“No need to make a big deal about it.” Jerry laughed. “The pleasure’s all ours!”

“Not nearly.” Horace smiled back, a hint of knowledge on his black lips. He turned his body sideways, motioning to the people behind him. “Let us apologize for testing you like this. We don’t enjoy it, but it’s a necessary process to protect ourselves.”

“If I may, Master.” Boney stepped forth, his bone jaw clacking. “What kind of test are they talking about?”

“And what’s that about death spirits?” Marcus quipped.

The rest of the group stared at Jerry, similarly curious. They’d only seen Jerry go still for a few seconds, then suddenly exchange mysterious words with Granny.

“The test was nothing serious,” he explained. “Granny showed me some things, but I only wanted to relax a bit, which was good enough. I don’t mind the test. I’ve met double-faced people; I can see where you’re coming from.”

“As for death spirits…” Horace scratched his head. “That’s us. When the Curse came, most people were turned into undead, but a few survived. Our bodies adapted to this new environment. We banded together into groups and escaped the civilization centers, as they were overrun with undead. We formed small tribes around the land and have been living in isolation ever since.”

“Are you serious?” Marcus gawked. “Humans can turn into nature spirits? That’s absurd!”

“That’s what people call us, at least.” Horace shrugged. “They’re not wrong. We are something between living and undead, just like necromancers but without the magic. Plus…” He looked at himself. “We clearly aren’t humans anymore, are we?”

“I find you very stylish,” Jerry said.

“Thank you, Jerry.” Horace laughed. “In any case, you must all be exhausted. Now that you’ve passed Granny’s test, you can rest here; our huts are more convenient than the swamp’s mud.”

Laura gave him a smile; a constrained, calm one. “That would be our pleasure. It’s been an eventful day.”

“Well then, be our guests!” Horace turned to where a handful of huts lay outside the circle. “Those ones are empty. Make yourselves comfortable, and don’t hesitate to call on us if anything comes up! Oh, and if we’re too loud, just say the word.”

“Too loud?” Marcus said. “Won’t you sleep?”

“We don’t sleep much. It comes with being half-undead.”

“You’re full of surprises, Horace.” Jerry laughed. “Sure. A good night’s rest is always welcome.”

“You have no need to sleep, either.” Horace’s black eyes twinkled. “You can spend the night with us if you prefer. All of you are welcome, of course, but I suspect the living ones will find the land of dreams a more comforting place.”

Marcus nodded. “That’s true. However, before that, there is something I must ask; what is your relation to the Wizard Order?”

Laura’s eyes narrowed, and even Jerry tensed up. The Wizard Order was known for having its headquarters in the Dead Lands, so them leaving the death spirits alone sounded too convenient.

Horace and his people looked at each other.

“Very little,” he said. “We don’t bother them, and in return, they don’t bother us. We’re content being part of the terrain.”

Marcus nodded. “Fair enough. Now, as I was saying, I think I’ll go to sleep. Age can wear the bones.”

“I can imagine,” Horace said, a knowing smile on his face.

“I will go, too,” Laura said. “Have fun, everyone… and see you at dawn, I suppose.”

“You bet.” Jerry smiled at her.

Marcus and Laura headed to one hut each, while Jerry and his host of undead followed the tribespeople toward the large bonfire. Two men were carrying logs and tinder, lighting it up, and the spark in its center evolved into blazing flames.

The heat struck them in a wave, and Jerry found it quite pleasant. Maybe he should rest by the fire until morning. That would be nice.

“If you don’t mind, Jerry,” Horace said, “how about I show you around a bit? Your undead friends could enjoy themselves peacefully in the meantime.”

Jerry glanced at the bonfire with longing. Well, maybe I can rest after.

“Sure,” he replied.

“Master—”

“Don’t worry, Boney. I’ll be fine. Horace is a good guy.”

“You can’t judge that quickly, Master…”

“Sure I can. Now, come on, my black-eyed friend. Tour me.”

Horace tensed. “Black-eyed is considered an insult around these parts. People call us that to demean us. I know you didn’t mean it that way, but it’s better to avoid the phrase.”

“Oh. I didn’t know. Sorry.”

“Not a problem.”

“Who calls you that, though? I thought you were isolated.”

Horace smiled sadly. “We have contact with the outside world, though rarely… thankfully.”

“They don’t like you, do they?”

“Why would they? We’re hideous.”

Jerry halted, turning his entire body to Horace. Paper-white skin, coupled with pitch-black features, everything from eyes to nails.

“I don’t see it,” he replied. “Uniqueness is not bad, Horace. Why would you say that?”

“It wasn’t a self-insult.” Horace shrugged. “In the eyes of normal people, we do look hideous.”

“Oh. That, yeah, but they’re assholes for thinking it.”

“That they are!”

The two men laughed, heading around the bonfire. The death spirits had returned to practicing, split into many groups that each worked on a separate art.

Jerry and Horace approached the dancing group, their shadows dancing too as the flames illuminated them. Along with the black-and-white coloration of their bodies, they made for quite an entrancing sight.

“They’re good,” Jerry observed.

“Of course! Everyone here is excellent at what they do; comes with the free time.”

“Do you really have nothing else to do?”

“In a way. Death spirits are similar to the undead; we don’t need to eat, drink, or sleep that much. With our basic needs satiated, we turn to the things that please us.”

“Wow… This place sounds like heaven.”

“There are downsides. And, this is only our tribe. There are others spread throughout the Dead Lands, and not all of them turn to noble pursuits. Some are obsessed with combat, others fight amongst themselves, and yet more take to conquering other tribes, expanding ever further. We don’t associate with others that much.”

“I see. If those warmongers reach you, that will be bad news.”

“We’ll be eradicated,” Horace agreed. “I am strong, but I cannot hold back entire tribes… and Granny’s powers have sadly deteriorated.”

“Yeah, I noticed. Is she a necromancer? Her soul felt similar to mine, like a lost sibling.”

“A psychomancer, to be exact—but yes, her powers fall in the general school of necromancy.”

“I thought necromancers didn’t grow old.”

Horace raised a brow. “Of course they do, just slower than most. Granny has been alive for almost three hundred years.”

Jerry swiveled around. “Are you serious? I barely even know that number!”

“It’s a lot,” the death spirit said, a proud smile on his lips. “She’s lived halfway to the Great Enigma—though that’s partly due to the Curse. It affects necromancers, too.”

“It does?”

“Not quickly.” Horace laughed again. “You’re fine, Jerry. It took Granny twenty years to turn into a death spirit.”

They approached another group; the painters. A woman held a piece of deerskin carefully against the fire, puzzling Jerry.

“What is she doing?” he asked.

“She’s letting the flames lick the painting and add black spots around its edges,” Horace explained. “Our painters use more than brushes. Fire, water, blood, even mud can be used to accentuate a painting, giving it new vibrancy.”

“That sounds advanced.”

“I told you, everyone here is good at what they do, and we’ve learned tricks to enhance every art, like the shadows of the dancers or the natural brushes for the painters.”

“What about them?”

Jerry pointed at the group of storytellers, where the same person as before was still narrating their story, now using their fingers and the firelight to cast shadowy figures on the walls of a nearby hut. Her fingers moved intricately, casting images of battle and triumph, of rocks falling from the sky, and an entire assortment of animals.

“Our storytellers weave stories within stories, creating symphonies which can raise one’s spirit to the heavens or drown it in hell. When even the nesting of complete stories into each other became commonplace, they realized that visual cues could liven up a story even more. It does not detract from the narrative; instead, the two of them work together to attain incredible heights.”

Jerry whistled. “I really enjoy this tribe of yours. What about you, Horace? What is your art?”

He laughed, raising the bow on his back. “A deadly one. Not as beautiful as the others, but someone needs to protect the tribe.”

“From what?”

“From everything,” he replied, shadows dancing on his face. “What is your story, Jerry? What made you who you are?”

“Well, it’s kind of funny. One day sixteen years ago, I fell asleep, and then I realized I could…”

As they spoke, their feet slowly carried them around the campfire, taking in everything the Akshik tribe had to offer. Painting, sculpting, music, dancing, storytelling… Many arts were gathered around a single campfire that enhanced them all.

Anywhere else in the world, these people would be considered masters at their crafts. Here, they all worked together to raise everyone to greater heights. It was a grand collection of experts, huddled around a small bonfire in a tiny swamp in a neglected part of the world. A hidden gem of the arts.

There were a few people simply resting or drinking a bit, and Jerry’s undead had already joined them. As time went by, some of the undead were drawn to other groups. Headless approached the dancing group, watching discreetly until they invited him to join; having struggled with balance issues at the beginning of his unlife, dancing had always excited him.

He’d even practiced on a few occasions, so he wasn’t too bad, but he resembled a wooden block compared to those around him. They didn’t mind; they eagerly advised him, and soon, the entire group was huddled around and encouraging Headless.

Changes were rare in this tribe, so everyone enjoyed them thoroughly.

Axehand had boldly strolled up to the sculpting group and asked to join them—he’d grunted, actually, but they’d gotten the message. His heart burning with competitive spirit, he’d carved his best imitation of Jerry’s face, and the tribespeople praised him for his skills, generously providing a long series of tips.

They’d then carved a masterpiece each, vastly eclipsing Axehand’s skills, and the double-skeleton had scuttled back to the drinking group, where he enjoyed his wine with those who rested and the non-artful undead.

Horace’s steps gradually angled away from the campfire, and Jerry followed, the two so engrossed in conversing that time passed swiftly. Before long, they’d walked a few hundred steps away from the tribe’s grounds, approaching an area where wide, orderly lines had been carved in the muddy water.

“What’s that?” Jerry asked.

“Our farm,” Horace said. Short green stalks rose out of the ground in regular intervals, each ending in a closed purple bud.

Horace kneeled beside them, touching one bud with such gentleness that, for a moment, he did not at all resemble a master archer. “The Curse has mutated these little flowers. When mature, they’re edible and exceptionally tasty. They only grow in swamps, but ironically, they also need clean water, of which there is very little around here. Despite our best efforts, most flowers will wilt before blooming…”

“I see.” Jerry observed Horace’s tenderness. “You must like them a lot.”

“More than you can imagine.” Horace sighed, standing back up to gaze straight at Jerry. “Can I ask you for a favor, Jerry? We are forced to travel a day away to fetch small amounts of clean water, but hydromancers can form it out of thin air. Could your companion help us water these flowers for a few days? That will be enough to ensure over half of them survive, and we wouldn’t dare ask you to stay longer.”

“That won’t be a problem.” Jerry smiled at the other man. “I mean, you should ask her, not me, but I don’t see why she would refuse.”

Horace’s chest visibly relaxed as he released a relieved breath. “Thank you… We appreciate this, truly. In return, we can also help you repair your airship. Some of us are good at woodworking, so it shouldn’t be a problem—plus, time is something we surely don’t lack.”

“You would do that? Thank you! Only, you don’t have to; watering these flowers will be easy for Laura, but repairing an airship sounds hard.”

“It’s not a problem at all.” Horace waved the hesitation away. “Just take it as a token of our gratitude.”

“In that case, thank you very much, Horace. For what it matters, I think you’re all great people.”

“We do our best, Jerry. We do our best. We shouldn’t need more than three days to get your ship ready. Until then, you shall be our guests… In other words, prepare to witness the Dead Lands’ beauty!”

60

FLYING WHALES CAN BE FUN

Marcus wiggled his toes, then smiled under his mustache.

“Laura!” he asked. “Can we have some more, please?”

“Yes, please!” a death spirit agreed.

“It’s running low!” replied another.

Laura chuckled. “Fine,” she said, waving her hands in the air. “Have a bunch.”

Water jumped out of her empty palms and into a hole in the ground, replenishing what little had been absorbed by the damp soil. She then returned to lounging on her little wooden chair, burying her nose in a book; a purple little thing called A Swamp’s Fire.

Hydromancers could conjure clean water out of thin air, and the Akshik tribe was in dire need of it. Theoretically, her hands should have been full, and not with books.

As it turned out, hydromancers could conjure a lot of water. Laura had easily handled the watering of the crocus flowers, the tribe’s loved delicacies, and had even filled all kinds of containers for the tribe with enough water to last them another two batches of flowers—she’d only stopped there because they ran out of containers. A few craftsmen were already hard at work, carving wood and molding clay into appropriate shapes.

The rest of the craftsmen were away from the tribe, repairing the airship while Axehand guarded them. Marcus had insisted on joining, but they’d shut him down, claiming that guests shouldn’t tire themselves. Unfortunately, they couldn’t reject Axehand, as he was necessary to keep the crocodiles at bay.

The Akshik tribe were the masters of the swamp, sure, but that was mostly because they knew to avoid the dangerous places.

The tribe’s containers ran out while Laura still had water to give, so they’d decided to utilize it by filling a shallow hole in the ground, then dipping their bare feet inside and reveling in the sensation. Marcus, Jerry, and a few death spirits were already partaking in this leisure activity, while the storytelling group also decided to relocate here.

“Well, don’t keep us waiting!” Jerry said. “What happened next?”

“Hoho,” a death spirit laughed, letting her head fall back. “What indeed, I wonder…”

“Don’t lie!” Another spirit pointed at her. “You’ve got it all planned out; you always have! No need to build up the beans, just spill them out!”

“Fine, fine.” The narrator relented. “So, the bull-man had just rammed into Nick, sending him rolling down a bushy hill. His tumbling ended at a steep cliff. He fell off, into the dark waters below—but, at the last moment, he grabbed onto a flimsy outcropping, barely saving himself!”

“You already said those!” another death spirit complained. “How did Nick save himself?”

“Well,” the narrator continued with an enigmatic smile, “saved himself is kind of a stretch. What actually happened was…”

The story went on, everyone hanging from the narrator’s lips. It was full of action, and sharp twists and turns. The intricate stories these people constructed couldn’t be narrated in the span of a few minutes. There were frequent breaks, and somehow, they always happened at the worst possible moments, forcing Marcus to attend the next session as well or he would run out of nails to bite!

How dreadful… This addiction is worse than purple spice!

He and Jerry were both drawn into this story. Jerry enjoyed it thoroughly, constantly debating theories with the other storytellers, while Marcus was left grumbling and eagerly awaiting the next segment, muttering his ideas only to himself. When he felt he had a good one, he would smugly enter the conversation and explain all the intricacies and hints left by the storyteller, making everyone gasp.

He’d even gotten it right once!

Laura accompanied them, easily shrugging off the hooks. How she did that was a mystery to Marcus. It also served as a challenge to the storyteller, apparently, who seemed to weave even more nail-biting storylines for them to follow, further exasperating everyone’s agony.

Why can she resist but I cannot? Marcus thought, grumbling inwardly. I must prove that it is difficult!

“Boney!” he shouted out. “Come join us! This story is fun!”

The skeleton ignored him.

“Like this?” he asked, crimson flames burning in his eye sockets as he stared at the animal skin strewn before him.

“Almost!” a nearby death spirit replied excitedly. He was one of the master painters, and his black eyes twinkled as he leaned into Boney’s painting of a starry night. “You got the swirling of the stars right, but… something’s missing here. What could it be? Hmm.” He thought about it, diving into what they called ‘the master’s flow.’ “Have you considered adding a melting clock?”

“Why would I do that?”

“You’re right, maybe we should make those into two paintings. Now, look here, my disciple.” He grabbed the brush. “Paintings can be viewed in many ways, so you want to direct the viewer’s gaze or it’s like listening to a story backward. If you just add a line here and another there, you can guide them. Then, knowing the path their eye will follow, you can combine different images into one painting to form a story…”

The master painted a few simple, swirling lines, and Boney’s eye-flames flickered. The painting had been transformed! Suddenly, everything made sense and fit together perfectly!

“I will never reach your level, teacher…” he said, sighing in disappointment.

“No worries, my disciple! With just a few decades of practice, you’ll be just as good as me, or at least close! Come on, let’s try again.”

Marcus grumbled, drawing his eyes away. Boney had been painting almost non-stop for three days now, exploiting an undead’s endless physical and mental stamina. His ears drifted back to the narrator.

“—but he ducked under the swing, then stepped aside and rammed his closed fist into the bull-man’s stomach. BAM! The enemy was thrown back, mooing in pain, while⁠—”

There was a certain musicality to the narration, Marcus realized. A rising and falling like the tide, expertly woven into words. It even followed the beat of the nearby musicians, who banged their drums, blew into flutes, and pulled the strings of their instruments into an ever-changing rhythm. They were playing some kind of game, where one of them randomly changed things up and the rest had to play around him, forming a series of divine melodies quickly lost to oblivion when the next melody began.

The dancer group had also joined in that game, changing their movements and entire style to fit the music. Sometimes, they were slow and full of hidden meaning. Others, they were fast and intense, radiating joy and energy. Their movements stirred the soul every time—except for Headless, who did his best to keep up but was obviously lacking despite practicing for three days straight.

The dancers were playing around his mistakes, making them appear planned and insightful, treating this as yet another game to hone their skills.

Marcus very much admired them for that. Despite reaching incredible heights, they did not rest, finding ways to constantly mix things up and challenge themselves. They were only acting out of pure enjoyment for what they were doing, and that was commendable, even if, in Marcus’s opinion, very impractical.

He had seen dancers in the Sea of Sands. They were significantly worse than these ones yet made a ton of money!

They could easily tour the kingdoms and make a fortune. What a waste… but, to each their own.

He, too, had been influenced by the serenity of this place.

Who could have guessed it? The great Marcus Copperfield, always rushing from place to place and discovering scores of treasures, would enjoy a vacation.

The Akshik tribe, perhaps due to living fifty years like this, didn’t rush at all. When the cook called them for lunch, they’d sometimes spend an hour just sitting around and waiting. He caught people lounging on grass for days at a time, even waiting for the sunset since the early afternoon.

Marcus was used to a high-speed life, so this approach made his insides itch; but, after three days, he had to admit that having nothing to do was indeed pleasant. Laura felt the same way, and the two often exchanged reassuring glances.

Jerry and his undead? They fit this place like peas in a pod.

Before even reaching here, Marcus had seen Jerry lounge on his chair for a week straight. He still carried the same chair around, placing it wherever he wanted to sit. He claimed it made his buttocks jelly. Marcus thought that was silly, but Jerry was happy. Since they were companions now, Marcus was happy too.

Boboar and Foxy were also having fun, constantly playing tag with some of the most athletic death spirits—careful not to harm anyone, of course.

Speaking of animals…

“Hey, Horace,” Marcus said, turning to the person beside him as the narrator took a short break to nibble on something.

“Hmm? What is it, my friend?”

“How can undead whales fly? We were attacked by one.”

Horace laughed, a crisp sound full of energy.

“How can skeletons talk?” he asked back, motioning at Boney. “Magic can do unbelievable things.”

“Yes, but necromancy works with the soul’s ingrained memories of what it can and can’t do. Whales shouldn’t fly.”

Horace laughed again. “What if I told you some species of whales can fly?”

“I would call you crazy.”

“Call me whatever you want, but it’s true.” He raised a hand to point at the sky through the foliage. “We see flying whales every once in a while, but they aren’t always dead. Sometimes, they’re alive and kicking, and not just that, but they carry people.”

“Are you serious?”

“Very. We’ve never contacted them, but rumors say they’re pillagers who wander the Dead Lands in search of victims to rob. Pirates of the sky, you could call them, though nobody knows where they come from. Some people claim there is a kingdom resting on clouds above the western sea, filled with flying whales, but how could that be true? Kingdoms don’t fly.”

“Neither do whales.”

“Sure they do, I’ve seen one.” Jerry joined the conversation. “We should search for a living one and befriend it—or, better yet, a dead whale I can raise. That would be awesome!”

“Awesome, my ass!” Marcus said. “I don’t want to fly on a whale!”

“Why not?”

“It’s ridiculous! It’s dangerous!”

“But fun.”

“Your dead ass is fun! What’s wrong with our airship? Flying ships are perfectly normal, unlike mispositioned marine wildlife!”

“We can have both.” Jerry grinned, while Marcus’s face fell.

“Didn’t that storyteller mention a whale called Dick?” asked Horace. “You know, in that story about the sea hunters. If you get a flying one, you could name it Floating Dick.”

“Oh. That’s a good idea, but I already have the perfect name: I’ll name it Chonky, because it will be chonky.”

“I’m outnumbered by stupidity,” Marcus lamented. “Laura, I need your help!”

“I wouldn’t dislike a pet whale,” she replied, smiling slightly. “Just don’t name it anything vulgar, please.”

“Can you even reanimate a whale?” Marcus asked. “I thought your magic reserves were limited.”

“I mean…” Jerry scratched his head. “Okay, no,” he finally admitted, “at least, not yet. Just wait until I’ve practiced for a decade; let alone raising a whale, I’ll create my own Happy Dead Lands, filled with shoes and chairs.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Laura said, “but you’re already doing much better than most necromancers I know, Jerry. You must be exceptionally talented.”

“Oh?” He looked at her. “Have you met many?”

“A few, but they were all unpleasant people. You’re the irregular one—and the best, in my opinion.”

“Thank you!” Jerry smiled widely. “You’re the best hydromancer I know, too.”

“Look!” Horace pointed behind them. “The Billies are at it again.” He shot to his feet, competitive spirit burning in his eyes. “I won’t fail this time!”

He grinned, then confidently strolled over, jumping on a taut rope between two trees. He extended both arms to the side, moving them up and down in a weird, rotating manner to maintain his balance on the rope trying to throw him off. For a moment, he’d almost fallen—and then, by sheer willpower and incredible muscles, he twisted his body and restored himself.

From the other side of the rope, a Billy snorted in amusement.

“No fair, Horace,” a few death spirits said, having amassed below. “We want to try too!”

“Wait for your turn, then,” he replied, but that was enough for him to lose his balance. He fell and harrumphed.

Tightrope walking was a new hobby the Billies had introduced, and a good part of the tribe took to it with fervor—especially Horace, with his muscle-filled body, and the dancers, whose balance was already superb. Some of them had already succeeded.

Horace’s turn came again after a while, and he eagerly jumped on the rope. This time, he even managed to take a step, then another!

His joy was such that he fell immediately, but he instantly got back up and roared in laughter. “I did it!” he shouted, and a Billy high-fived him.

Marcus smiled, watching from the foot-pool.

“Youngsters,” he muttered, sighing deeply as he dipped his feet back into the water. “Oh. The soil is absorbing it again, Laura.”

“On it.”

She waved a hand and refilled the hole; an easy thing for her.

“You could join us, you know,” he said. “The water is nice.”

“I know, I made it.” She smiled. “I’ll have to pass, but thank you. Relaxing like this… is not my style.”

“Suit yourself,” Marcus replied, leaning back as his feet were enveloped by refreshing coolness.

Maybe we could create one of these on the ship, he thought. His eyes snapped open and a smirk formed on his face. Heh, what a thought. These idiots are turning me into one of them. Such silliness… but why does it feel so nice? And, most importantly, why do I feel as though everything will work out in the end?

He gazed at Jerry. “You’re contagious.”

“Me?” the necromancer said. “Why?”

Marcus chuckled and didn’t reply. With his feet in the water, his eyes closed, and his hand fiddling with two taels in his pocket, for a fleeting moment, life seemed nice.

61

THE DEAD LANDS’ SECRET

The days didn’t pass; they flowed.

Uninhibited, one by one, slowly yet quickly, they slid through the group with the ups and downs of a sun that changed nothing. The Akshik tribe was a place of serenity; there were no worries.

Food was rich—the swamp had plenty of edible vegetation, and the tribe knew how to safely cook zombie deer—and water came easy. Danger was practically nonexistent, as all strong creatures knew to avoid the tribe’s grounds. As for those that didn’t, they learned their lesson after receiving a few arrows in the eye.

This was an idyllic place, with the only odd spot being the absence of children.

All the group did was relax, spend time with each other, and occasionally try their hand at the arts of their choosing. It was boring, in a sense, but at just the right amount to be relaxing instead of unpleasant. It made them feel detached from the world, isolated in their own little bubble of peace.

Jerry confirmed that leaving Pilpen had been the right choice. He and his undead had formed a circus, then spent a month touring and having fun. They’d gone to Edge Town, where they had a fun little adventure that ended with them acquiring an airship, and finally, they’d toured the skies on said airship and fought a flying whale before ending up at such a nice place.

They’d met Marcus and Laura, too, who were each pleasant. Both had their secrets, as they were practically strangers whose relationships with Jerry had only just begun, but they were fun people, and they came across trustworthy.

Sometimes, Jerry felt the world was too kind to him. Was he lucky, or was fate charging a jaw-breaking uppercut to throw at him?

Before they knew it, a week had come and gone.

The airship was repaired. The crocus flowers were watered enough for most to bloom, and all sorts of makeshift containers had been insulated and filled with water for future harvests. Laura was exhausted, but the tribe’s gratitude made her lips curve up as well.

She usually kept a distance, though her smile was genuine.

Everything was in place, and the group was ready to depart. This was the final night around the bonfire, and everyone was determined to make it magical.

For the first time in years, the tribe was all gathered and quiet, sitting on benches or the ground on one side of the campfire. Across them, a circular empty space—as large as the huts allowed—had been clearly defined by a ring of stones.

Horace himself sat on the ground, leaning against the wall of Granny’s hut right below a window—and, in its flickering darkness, two elderly, curious eyes peeked out, pitch-black like the deepest abyss.

A man appeared from behind a hut and walked to the center of the empty space. His steps were wide and confident, his presence imposing with charm, his smile wide, and he did not at all resemble someone who’d just spent an entire week relaxing with all his might.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jerry began, his voice traveling over the campfire to reach the crowd, “I present to you… the Funny Bone Circus!”

Cheers erupted.

A row of undead appeared, each carrying an assortment of things as they formed a parade that circled Jerry. There was music—more pleasant than it used to be—dancing—more harmonic than it used to be—and the annoying sound of Boney’s party stick, the red, unfurling, ear-wrenching monstrosity—exactly as discordant as it used to be. The talking skeleton raised his party hat in greeting as he stood beside Jerry.

The tribe laughed warmly, excited to watch their new friends perform.

“From the south of the Escarbot Kingdom,” Jerry began, “from beyond the Wall of the Damned, carried to you by the four winds and an unfortunate whale”—more laughter from the audience—“the Funny Bone Circus has traveled half the world to perform for you! Open your eyes, everyone, and watch… the best sight of your entire lives!”

The tribe’s expert performers—practically all of them—smirked in challenge, but only kind words escaped their mouths.

From where Jerry stood, the death spirits seemed terrifying. Their paper-white skin reflected the firelight, but their black features sucked it all in. If they sprang on anyone in the middle of the night, that person would undoubtedly scream and soil their pants… and yet, these death spirits were some of the kindest people Jerry had ever met.

They were a far cry from the double-faced, idiotically terrified people of Pilpen or the many who’d looked at him weird during his travels. Had this place been the first he visited, he might have never left… and even now, Jerry considered spending a few years here after they’d found the treasure of Dorman.

However, that was neither here nor there. Now was the time to give them an unforgettable, incredible show!

The parade came to an end, most undead retreating to let Boboar and Foxy take the stage. The double-boar oinked and ran around, jumping through hoops that Boney—their assistant—held in the air, while Foxy danced with bells and colorful lines tied to her body, making for a cutely mesmerizing show.

The tribe’s dancers nodded and smiled, indicating that this show wasn’t too terrible—a compliment, coming from them.

Headless came next, and the tribespeople watched with wide mouths as he juggled stones first, then torches, and finally his open-eyed head. They hadn’t seen this before, as he’d spent his entire time dancing, and the shock value was enough to make Jerry, who watched from the side, pump his fist in excitement. These people were masters of the arts, so impressing them had been his personal challenge.

Headless’s head flew to the high branches before he caught it again, placing it before his chest and putting the torches away. He bowed, and the tribe clapped with fervor, many already analyzing this new art they would practice. They dreamed of juggling ten stones, fifteen, even twenty!

Axehand came next. His show of strength did not attract the tribe’s respect towards a peer, but it did earn their amazement, as Axehand’s physical aspects were way off the charts. Horace’s eyes sharpened; he’d heard that Axehand was strong but hadn’t taken those words seriously. Now, he did.

As he gazed sharply at Axehand, so did the double-skeleton gaze back, a crimson flame of rivalry burning in his eyes.

“Heh.” Horace chuckled. His eyes narrowed farther. Axehand nodded.

Horace jumped to his feet. “Let me help you, then,” he said, laughing as he drew his bow. Axehand grunted in agreement.

Arrow after arrow whistled through the air, crossing through the flames as they made for Axehand. With brutal swings, each of the arrows was swatted away, Axehand grunting cockily. The crowd gasped.

Horace’s black teeth showed. “Good!” he exclaimed, accelerating.

The arrows came one after another at tremendous speeds, each leaving his bow before the previous could even reach its target, and Axehand grunted excitedly as he got serious. Both axes hacked through the air faster than the eye could see, intercepting every single arrow mid-flight and tossing them away.

Everyone watched wide-eyed, their shock great. They knew how deadly Horace’s arrows were. They never imagined anyone could match him.

“Good!” Horace laughed, reaching for his quiver again. “In that case⁠—”

His fingers grasped empty air. Shocked, he stood still, then tsked as he sat back down.

“You win,” he declared begrudgingly, and the entire audience erupted into cheers again, harder than before. Horace may have run out of arrows, but this exchange got their blood boiling anyway!

Axehand grunted in acknowledgment, not celebrating his victory. Everyone thought his act was over, but he sat on the ground and pulled out a block of wood, using one of his axes to carve it into the shape of a lifelike wooden horse.

Jerry’s brows rose. This was way better than anything he’d made before. Clearly, he had been observing and practicing in secret, even though he’d never associated with the tribe’s sculptors again after realizing how superior they were.

The necromancer chuckled. Axehand will be Axehand, he mused affectionately. The tribe’s sculptors narrowed their eyes as they took in the sculpture. Slowly, they nodded. Axehand had practiced this particular carving intensely, and the council of masters deemed it passable.

That was a huge success—and, though Axehand would never show it, he was proud of himself.

Then came the Billies. They traversed ropes tied between the highest branches, walked backward, and even overtook each other on the same rope as they performed all sorts of difficult tricks. Having tried ropewalking for the last few days, most of the death spirits could appreciate the difficulty of this act; they clapped and cheered excitedly once the Billies were done.

As for the Billies themselves… Jerry could sense their smugness, and he laughed.

Let them have it, he thought, scratching the beard he should likely shave. I suspect that the next time we pass through here, we’ll find death spirits agiler than monkeys!

The performance was over by now, and all the participants came out to bow as they welcomed the tribe’s cheers—they even had to bow twice, as the clapping refused to stop.

“Encore!” they shouted! “Encore!”

Jerry had no idea what that meant.

The cheers died down eventually, and the crowd scattered. Most walked up to the circus performers and showered them with praise, to which the undead reacted bashfully, like children. It brought a smile to Jerry’s lips.

Jerry himself did not stay to talk with the spirits. Instead, he walked over to where Horace was sitting.

“That was an impressive performance, Jerry,” said the death spirit.

“Thank you.” Jerry smiled. “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

“I already am.”

Jerry sat beside him, also leaning against the wall, and fully aware of Granny listening from its other side.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“You already did,” Horace said.

Jerry chuckled. “Thank you for your assistance with Axehand’s act. It was a good addition, and frankly, it made him happy as well.”

“Just wait till I get more arrows. Then, we’ll see who’s the happy one.”

“I don’t think you’ll get that chance.”

“Yeah, I guess I won’t… You’re leaving tomorrow, right?”

“Right.”

A breeze blew past them, reminding Jerry that he was still alive—or rather, that he felt as such. He would miss this place and its terrifying, artistic, kind inhabitants.

“So?” Horace broke the silence. “What did you want to ask me?”

Jerry regarded him evenly. “I’m just curious. It’s fine if you don’t want to reply, but those arrows of yours were shot too fast. That wasn’t the speed of a normal person.”

“It wasn’t, huh?” Horace looked up, resting the back of his head against the cool wall. “Guess I’ve come a long way.”

“Yeah… Are you a nature spirit? I mean, were you one even before the Curse?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was just a normal person?”

“Yes.”

“Really?” He raised a brow. “You just said my speed was superhuman.”

“I think so, yeah, but you’re my friend. I trust you.”

Horace stayed silent for a moment.

“I really was a normal person, one hunter out of many,” he finally replied. “I just trained hard for fifty years. That’s it.”

“Oh, wow. You give new meaning to practice makes perfect.”

“Thank you.” Horace laughed before his eyes turned down. “It just happened. I was strong before the Curse came, and then I kept training. Eventually, I was enough to protect the tribe, so the others could focus on arts, crafts, and all the things that made them happy. I kept training—which I enjoy, mind you, it’s just that…” His words trailed off.

“That it’s unfair?” Jerry tried.

“No, no.” Horace shook his head. “Everyone’s doing what they like, including me. It’s just that I’m different. Look at them, Jerry.”

Jerry raised his head and found a tribe of soft, peace-loving people. Horace wasn’t that. He burned with passion and fighting spirit, but he was stuck at a place that didn’t suit him like a young man in a nursing home.

He just didn’t fit. Jerry was reminded of himself.

“I see,” he said slowly. “If you don’t like it here, you can just leave.”

“It’s not that simple.” Horace’s eyes hardened. “Can I be frank, Jerry? Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d love to have your life. You travel around on an airship, meeting interesting people, exploring interesting places, and testing yourself against worthy challenges. There is nothing binding you; you can do whatever you want. I am not like that. I am long chained by duty. This place is my home and grave.”

Jerry pouted his lips, looking into the void as he considered Horace’s words.

What a sad fate… he mused, feeling his heart growing heavier. What would I do?

In the end, he simply shook his head. “I understand how you feel, Horace. I used to be trapped as well, but my circumstances were easier. I escaped. I believe you can, too. Your bindings are only in your mind. So what if you love your people and want to protect them? Your main responsibility lies towards yourself, not others. If need be, teach them to handle themselves, then let them.”

“They can already protect themselves, but that’s not the point. I have a duty.”

“Your duty is fake.”

“Mind your words, necromancer.” Horace’s eyes narrowed. “Just because I’m opening my heart to you doesn’t mean you can insult my values.”

“Sorry.”

They lapsed into silence, then Jerry finally said, “You have a point. I still believe you should take care of yourself first, but I understand. Duty-bound is a commendable, unfortunate thing to be.”

Horace smiled sadly. “Yes… My heart screams to leave, to see the world, but I am the tribe’s protector; I cannot abandon them. This is my place in life. Compared to my duty, my worries are secondary.”

“I see,” was all Jerry said, and he meant it. He understood. “On the bright side, this place is not that bad.”

Horace chuckled. “I don’t dislike it, but… The Curse spared no one, Jerry. It didn’t matter if you were a wizard, a beast, a normal human, or a powerful nature spirit. Both inside and outside, everyone changed. Even the two kingdoms of the north, our former skies, were ground into the earth and destroyed by this terrifying Curse. And our children… The crushing majority didn’t make it, and death spirits can’t reproduce.”

Horace raised his head toward the sky. “We are doomed, dying embers in the carcass of a once-blooming nation. There is no future, no hope, no meaning in our lives. We aren’t just dead, Jerry; we are dead. And I am rotting.”

Jerry didn’t know what to reply. Both men lapsed into silence, the excited, cheerful voices reaching them from across the campfire. Jerry shook his head.

“Ozborne was a terrifying man…” he said, but Horace only laughed.

“Do you still believe in that fairy tale? Do you really think that one person could accidentally wipe out two entire kingdoms to the point where even their royalty and strongest wizards were never seen again? That a mistake could persist for fifty years and spread over half a continent?”

Jerry turned his head. “What do you mean?”

“The Curse was no mistake, Jerry,” Horace said in a dark voice, “and I doubt it was just Ozborne. Granny knows about curses, and she’s adamant they don’t just spread like diseases. It takes a constant input of energy to keep them going. For this curse, the magical energy required must be unbelievable, and someone has maintained it for fifty years already…”

“No way!” Jerry’s eyes widened.

“Yeah. And the same people who created it must have also spread the rumor it was an accident caused by Ozborne. It wasn’t. They did it, whoever they are… but the truth is, everybody knows. There is only one organization in the world with the power and motive to do this, and it isn’t a coincidence they swooped in so timely to assume control of the Dead Lands.”

“Controlling the Dead Lands? Do you mean…”

“That’s right.” Horace’s eyes shone with hateful darkness. He clenched his fists. “Everything and everyone I know was ravaged by the Wizard Order. They destroyed my life… and I will have my revenge, one way or another, in this world or another.”

Jerry’s mouth moved without sound. Just as he was about to say something, a commotion came from one side of the tribe as a female death spirit rushed in, panting as she shouted, “They’re here! The tax collectors are here! Hide, everyone, quick!”

62

TAXES ARE THE DEVIL’S WORK

“Tax collectors?” Jerry stood up. “What⁠—”

“Quick!” Horace bolted upright, voice filled with haste. “Hide, hide, quick!”

“Horace—”

“No time to talk!” the death spirit yelled. “Hide now!”

“Follow me!” A nearby woman grabbed Jerry’s arm, pulling him aside and toward a hut. His undead were similarly approached and pulled into huts, as were Marcus and Laura.

Jerry did not resist them, but he did not stay quiet either, “What’s going on? What tax collectors? Why are we hiding?”

“I will explain everything,” the woman replied, “but please, hide for now. Hurry, before they see you!”

“Well, if you insist.”

Jerry finally agreed, letting himself get dragged into a hut as the door slammed shut behind him. The undead were split into several huts. All tribespeople were suddenly filled with haste, while several others moved the benches to their original positions and scattered the stones that demarcated the circus stage. The animal skin paintings were torn to pieces, the instruments dragged and locked into huts.

The woman beside Jerry took a few deep breaths, hand on her chest, before staring into his eyes. “Be quiet,” she said, “and no matter what happens, stay hidden. I implore you!”

“Sure,” he replied. “Is it time for explanations now, or do I keep waiting?”

“It’s—” The woman bit her lip, clearly unwilling to speak, but she didn’t have much choice. “You’ll see it anyway, so I should tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“We are not safe from the Wizard Order. All tribes in the Dead Lands belong to them. We pay taxes so they leave us alone,” she explained quickly, glancing at the window with worried eyes. “But I don’t understand… Why now? They were supposed to arrive next month!”

“Hmm. They’re just collecting taxes, right? What’s the big deal?” Jerry asked. He wasn’t unfamiliar with taxes; his family used to pay them, as did the residents of Pilpen to Milaris. It was common practice.

The woman shook her head, clenching her fists. “You don’t get it. They⁠—”

A heavy thud shook the clearing as a massive form fell from the sky and landed in a crouched position, right next to the campfire. Jerry looked out the window.

“Hide!” the woman hissed, pushing his head down. “They must not see you, no matter what!”

Jerry frowned. “If you need me, shake me,” he said, then closed his eyes and tumbled to the floor. On a high branch, Birb’s vision was shared by its Master.

The form that had fallen from the sky raised its body. It was a tall warrior clad in dark plate armor, no part of its skin revealed, except for two crimson flames where its eyes used to be. Moreover, its limbs were long, twice as long as they should be—and its armor, which could fit them, was obviously custom-made. Power oozed from its aura.

Jerry gasped. A death knight!

The entire tribe stood frozen. People eyed the creature warily and in fear, standing by the fire or in their huts, and for a moment, nobody spoke. Horace was the first. Taking a few steps toward the creature, he arrived before it and fell to one knee.

“Welcome, Masters,” he said, voice filled with respect. The death knight didn’t even budge.

“That’s what I like about you, Horace. You have manners.” A voice drifted from the sky, and as Birb turned to look, it spotted a small white boat descending through the trees. A small balloon was tied above it, and air was slowly escaping from a valve as the man sitting on the boat smiled, revealing a row of perfect white teeth.

“Thank you, Master.” Horace bowed deeper. His usual bold attitude was nowhere to be seen.

The boat descended under everyone’s cautious gazes until it landed gently. The man smiled, not getting off. “Good boy.”

He was tall and dressed in loose yellow robes. A yellow feather rose from the fabric, while the man’s blond hair, cyan eyes, and perfectly white teeth completed the image of undeniable nobility. His attire was elegant and fluttering in the little wind, clearly of extremely high-quality. It was also completely unblemished. Finally, the features of his clean-shaven face were thin.

“Your presence honors our tribe, Master,” Horace said, keeping his head lowered. “We must have miscounted the months. We were expecting you later and have not prepared a celebration worthy of your arrival.”

“It’s fine,” the man replied, clearly pleased with the respect he was shown. His shiny smile took on an authoritative tint. “I happened to be nearby, so I thought I’d pop in early. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Never, Master. It’s just that…” Horace struggled with his words. The death knight, who still stood beside him, regarded Horace for the first time. Its gaze was as if looking at an insect.

The blond man frowned. “Just what?”

“Just that…” Horace hesitated, drawing a sharp breath before saying quickly, “We are not quite ready, sir.”

The entire tribe remained frozen—the blond man hadn’t spared them a single glance—and Horace was shaking as if trying to hide his fear.

Jerry had only shared his vision with Birb; the rest of his senses, including his hearing, were still with his original body. “Why is Horace so scared?” he asked. “Even if he can’t beat them alone, we’re here too.”

“He’s acting,” another hushed whisper replied. “He pretends to be normal like us, or the Order will kidnap him and have him fight for them—or worse, dissect him to find out what’s different about him.”

“Really?”

“Of course. We also hide our arts from them; in their eyes, we’re just a tiny, bland tribe that sits on their arses all day. If not, they would certainly chain us and take us to the Academy.”

“What is the—” Jerry began, but stopped speaking as the blond man opened his mouth.

“Are you saying,” he uttered slowly, threateningly, “that you don’t have the flowers yet?”

“We do not, Master.” Horace slammed his forehead against the ground once, his voice trembling. “These were hard months, Master… It did not rain much, so we couldn’t find clean water. Our latest batch hasn’t matured yet, but it’s doing well. I’m begging you, Master, give us a little more time!”

“You should have it ready when I come,” the blond man replied with narrowed eyes. “So what if I came a month early? Were you planning to prepare everything at the last moment? Do you think the Wizard Order is just a hassle to deal with?”

“We would never dream of that, Master!” Horace slammed his forehead down again. “We are doing everything we can! We beg for your forgiveness!”

“Hmm.”

The blond man stood a little straighter.

“We can’t have that, Horace,” he finally said. “Traveling here is cumbersome. Since I have already come once, I will not return anytime soon.”

Horace remained silent.

“However, we do need the crocus flowers, or the next symposium will be missing a delicacy.” The blond man shook his head. “This is quite the conundrum, my dear Horace. What do you think I should do?”

“I would not dare speak for you, Master!”

The death knight moved without any warning. A plated boot dug into Horace’s ribs, sending him tumbling a few feet over with a breathless groan. He remained belly-up on the ground, grasping his left side while his face passed through myriad grimaces.

Looking from above, Jerry knew this wasn’t enough to harm someone as powerful as Horace. His performance was exemplary, as was putting away his pride so evidently… but would it be enough?

“You should respond when I ask you something, Horace,” the man continued as if nothing had happened. “How do you think I should handle this?”

Horace gasped. Fighting through the obvious pain, he struggled to turn himself face-down, then slowly got on his knees to grovel.

“Take all the flowers we have, Master,” he replied, coughing. “One batch… was all we could manage. We will repay you next time, Master, I swear!”

Jerry’s frown deepened. “Why is he not fighting back yet?”

“I told you, he’s pretending!” the woman whispered back.

“So he’s just going to grovel, get beat up for fun, and beg for forgiveness? He isn’t even in the wrong; it’s that guy who came early.”

“It doesn’t matter. The Wizard Order slaughters tribes like ours at the slightest hint of disrespect! We cannot afford to resist even one bit.”

“Are you sure? I’ve fought them a bunch and nothing bad happened.”

The woman didn’t respond for a second. When she did, her voice was trembling.

“You did what?”

“Yeah, I kicked someone’s ass—a Herald or something. He was the one who attacked us, actually, but Axehand showed him.”

“A Herald…”

“He was cocky, too, just like this guy… Look, I understand you want to lay low, but why not beat him up? Worst-case, you die standing, but death is underrated. It’s at least better than living on your knees, right?”

The woman didn’t reply; Jerry couldn’t see her, but he assumed she’d been rendered speechless by his limitless wisdom.

“I guess that’s the best we can do,” the blond man replied, letting out a light sigh. “Fine. Bring me all the flowers you have and remember that you’ll have to give us double next time.”

The woman, still holding Jerry’s arm, tightened her grip. Paying double sounded bad even to Jerry.

“Master—” Horace was trembling still, but the tax collector didn’t even let him finish.

“That said,” he continued, “we can’t let this go without punishment, right?”

“Punish me, Master!” Horace cried out bravely. “I am the tribe’s leader. It is all my fault.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I had in mind.”

The blond man smiled, once again revealing those pearly white, perfect teeth of his. He raised a finger, a flash appearing in midair before it sparked once, then expanded into a ray of light that pierced clean through Horace’s right forearm. Black blood spurted while Horace released a scream of pain—and this time, Jerry suspected it was real.

There were five schools of magic: Biomancy, Hydromancy, Pyromancy, Photomancy, and Necromancy. This was Jerry’s first time seeing a photomancer.

If the tribe had been quiet before, it was now deathly silent. Everyone shuddered. Nobody dared to even breathe too loudly. And in all their eyes, Jerry could see the same feeling—indignation. Fists clenching, teeth gnashing, brows raising, irises trembling. Clearly, watching Horace take this unfair blow for all of them was beyond infuriating.

If Horace was feeling the same, he didn’t show it. Enduring the pain, he remained groveling.

“Tell me, Horace,” the blond man continued, “death spirits might be disgusting abominations, but do you know what’s your only redeeming quality?” He grinned. “You can take a beating.”

Another ray of light flashed out, penetrating Horace’s knee and eliciting another scream. Unable to support himself any longer, he fell face-first into the soil.

Even now, Horace did not reveal the slightest hint of anger, but Jerry’s chest was filled with it. This was not a pretty sight at all.

However, as Horace struggled to raise his upper body, the photomancer wasn’t looking at him. Instead, his eyes were turned to the side. “What’s that?” Another flash left his finger, penetrating one of Horace’s legs, but the photomancer’s eyes remained elsewhere. He frowned.

So did Jerry. Birb had followed the wizard’s gaze, and noticed something reflecting the photomancer’s flash; something that shouldn’t exist in this dark, dirty swamp.

The blond man’s grin blossomed with wickedness. “Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

He stepped off his boat, revealing a pair of squeaky clean, brown moccasins as he walked to where the foot-pool used to be. Laura hadn’t refilled it in a few hours, but the soil was already saturated, and a shallow puddle of clean water still sparkled in its bottom.

From his bird-eye’s view, Jerry saw Horace tense up. His act faltered for a moment. The photomancer wasn’t watching, but the death knight was, and the crimson flames flickered in its eyes.

“This is water, Horace,” the wizard observed, his voice betraying his excitement. “I thought there was little rain, and that you couldn’t find clean water to water my flowers. Yet, here it is, in this shallow little hole in the middle of your tribe. Are you hiding something from me?”

“I wouldn’t dare, Master!” Horace struggled to raise his upper body, and slammed his face against the ground repeatedly. “I would never dare lie to you, Master! We were digging a hole just earlier today, hoping to find water underground and prepare more tribute for you, but we found nothing!”

“Then why do I see water in this hole, Horace?”

“It might have surfaced later, Master, after we gave⁠—”

Horace raised his head to speak, but an armored boot fell from above slammed his face hard into the ground.

Jerry tensed; everyone did, and yet, Horace himself did not show the slightest hint of fighting back.

“He can’t endure this as well!” Jerry said. “It’s too much!”

“Horace…” the woman whispered, and her voice was muffled. She was crying. Jerry’s heartbeat accelerated.

The death knight glared suspiciously at Horace under its boot. When no response came, its eye-flames flickered once more before stepping back.

A growl came from the side.

“You dare lie to me, vermin?” the blond man thundered, snarling. “Speak at once or I will ruin you all!”

63

PUNCHING ABOVE ONE’S WEIGHT

The tribe gasped collectively. People stepped back, some gazing at Horace with concern and others at the wizard with thinly veiled hatred.

“No…” A muffled sound came from the ground as Horace struggled to raise his head. Pretending or not, he was clearly hurt. “I really… wasn’t lying…”

“Bullshit!”

Another ray flashed past, burying itself in Horace’s ribs. He screamed.

“Speak, vermin! What are you hiding?”

“I swear—Gah!” A kick landed on Horace’s side, sending him tumbling and landing face-up—his nose was squashed, and his face was overrun by black blood. Jerry frowned deeply.

“That’s it,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’m going out there.”

“No!” The woman fell on him. His vision returned just in time to see black tears landing on his face. She was panting above him, warring with herself as she begged, “Please! Don’t kill us, please…”

“Horace is dying out there!” Jerry whispered. “If I⁠—”

“He’s fine!” she hissed. “Horace is very strong. He will be fine. Just stay back, please!”

Jerry set his jaw. He wasn’t stupid. He got the concept. Horace was taking a beating to save his tribe, and all of them were choosing to grovel instead of fight. That was fine. It was their choice. Just, for Jerry, watching hurt, and most importantly, it wasn’t working! The photomancer wouldn’t let the issue rest. The least he would do was kill Horace as an example.

Jerry wouldn’t let that happen. The tribe could make its choices, but Horace was his friend now—and, if the Akshiks let Horace die for them after all the sacrifices he made, Jerry would just ignore them.

Give them a moment more, he promised himself. Just hold on for a moment.

His vision returning to Birb’s, and he saw the death knight hold Horace up by his hair. The photomancer stood before him, an open palm shining with golden light. It would have been beautiful if not for his terrifying visage.

“You pathetic creatures should know your place by now,” he said, snorting. “You were born inferior. No matter what you do, Curse or not, you are destined to die in the same filth from whence you came, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. You should be grateful we even let you serve us instead of purge you… and you dare lie? Well, if your souls are that weak, let me help you understand.”

Horace gritted his teeth. “I will accept any punishment, Master…” he mumbled, trembling. “Just, please, I’m begging you, don’t touch my tribe…”

“Begging me? Oh, no, you’ve lost that right. Let’s see; there was another traitor here, right?”

He pointed to Granny’s hut. Before anyone could react, light erupted from the ever-dark hut as if a sun had been born inside, and a heart-wrenching, low-volume scream echoed out.

“No!” Horace growled, pulling at the death knight once before regaining himself, but his black teeth were gritting so hard they could break.

“You shut up,” the photomancer said, placing his palm right before Horace’s face. A wide ray of light shot out, as if the condensed light of a hundred torches, and Horace screamed as he reached for his eyes—even through his closed eyelids, he had been partially blinded.

The blond man laughed before another sun flared in Granny’s hut, eliciting a new, even more pained scream. Jerry looked over through Birb. He had never seen Granny clearly before—her hut was always dark—but the perpetual darkness had now been dispelled. Light escaped through the soft furs that served as curtains, half of which had been torn.

Granny was a small, shriveled form, wrinkled beyond belief and lying helplessly on a tidy bed. She was bald and toothless, and her arms were filled with tattoos depicting dark purple feathers crossed out by black lines.

Her most striking feature was her skin. It was the color of old paper and looked so thin Jerry could almost see through it. As the light fell on her, the skin turned red.

Granny’s pain was silent now, as her throat was weak, but her soul lashed out in spiritual despair, shaking everyone’s minds and making their vision sway. Many tribespeople fell on their knees and wobbled, including the woman struggling to keep Jerry down, who instantly lost power in her limbs.

“A traitor’s screams, what a nice song!” The blond man laughed, his pearly white teeth reflecting the light of the hut. “This was all your doing, wasn’t it? The Wizard Order was kind enough to let you live, and you dare plot against us while letting this pitiful spirit take the blame? Very well. I’d like to see you hold your secrets when your burnt skin is flaking before my sun.” He turned to the death knight. “Ender. If anyone tries to approach me or resist, kill them.”

The death knight bowed, drawing a curved, wicked, blood-drenched blade. Granny’s soul fluctuated like mad, desperately looking for salvation.

It reached Jerry, too; the impact was too weak to affect him, but it wasn’t an attack. All he heard was a scream powered by desperation, a cry for help.

Jerry didn’t know if Horace had felt the same, but he knew one thing: he’d seen enough. These death spirits had been so kind to him, and this man treated them like shit. Granny was in terrible pain. Horace was humiliating himself to avoid confrontation and save the tribe, which was commendable, but it wasn’t going to work anymore. The soft path had failed. Someone needed to act.

Jerry wasn’t easy to anger, yet this man managed it. His eyes turned into dark lakes while crimson flames sparked in the eye sockets of all his undead.

“I’ve seen enough,” he said, pushing the crying woman off him as he regained his vision. With two steps, he reached the door and swung it open. His eyes oozed darkness as he met the photomancer’s surprised gaze.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

“Whoever I want,” Jerry replied.

The photomancer’s previous haughtiness evaporated in an instant. Jerry was clearly a human, yet his eyes oozed liquid blackness. There was only one thing he could be: a necromancer!

The man closed his mouth, jumping back with golden radiance already shining around his body. “Ender!” he shouted, and the death knight bounded forth like a berserk horse.

Jerry snorted. “Axehand.”

The tip of an axe rammed against the death knight’s head mid-flight, sending the entire plate warrior crashing into a tree in the distance. Axehand stood there, grunting as his entire body released red steam.

The photomancer’s eyes widened. “Back off! I’m with the Wi⁠—”

“Billies.” Jerry’s voice cut him off, and four zombies appeared and jumped at the wizard.

“Stay away!” he screamed, his entire body lighting up enough to make Jerry look away, but the Billies were already so close they didn’t need to see. Closing their eyes, they simply charged where the wizard used to be, all flailing their limbs wildly to catch him.

They succeeded.

Zombie arms wrapped around the wizard’s limbs, enduring the blinding light. He retaliated. Illusions appeared all around the Billies, but they still had their eyes closed. To everyone else, these illusions were mighty.

Jerry saw the wizard escaping and the Billies turned to ashes—only his mental link to his undead let him realize it was fake. The tribespeople reacted differently, screaming or shouting and escaping in random directions. A few came for Jerry, mistaking him for the photomancer due to the illusions, but Headless and Boboar appeared by his side to stop them.

A faint mist glided through the air, diffusing the light and making the illusions unstable. Some tribespeople understood what was happening then, some didn’t, but it didn’t matter. Horace jumped up, arrow already nocked—he’d grabbed a spare quiver while everyone was trying to hide—as he shouted at Jerry, “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!”

Billy One slapped the photomancer so hard his illusions flickered before dissipating, and everything turned quiet. Jerry watched grimly. If not for his necromantic links or the haze that Laura had produced, even he might have fallen for the wizard’s tricks.

In fact, the wizard himself had been an illusion. His actual body was two feet to the side of where he appeared to be, probably to avoid any sneak attacks from the tribe, but that hadn’t helped him against the Billies’ encirclement.

One by one, his limbs were immobilized as the Billies raised the photomancer in the air, holding him still. His eyes were cloudy as he stared at Jerry.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, not intimidated at all. “Who are you? I’m with the Wizard Order; let go of me right now! And take these disgusting things away!”

Jerry crossed his arms. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to.”

Horace was conflicted, gazing from side to side before a crashing sound got his attention. The death knight had stood up, and its crimson eyes flared as it charged at Axehand, curved blade at the ready. Its speed was nothing to scoff at. It was a serious opponent—and this time, it wouldn’t be ambushed.

Axehand only grunted. He charged right back, axe blades crossed before his chest and red steam escaping his skeletal body.

“Make your undead stop,” Jerry ordered, but the photomancer only laughed.

“Fool!” he said. “I don’t control that thing!”

Axehand and the death knight clashed at the edge of the tribe clearing, exchanging a dozen blows in the blink of an eye. Axes hacked and slashed with tremendous force, but the curved blade proved slippery, supported by an unearthly physique.

Axehand ducked under a slash, then rammed his shoulder into the enemy as both his axes twirled. He hacked with both at once, but the death knight had already jumped back, using its long limbs and longer weapon to attack from beyond Axehand’s reach. Strikes rained on Axehand, chipping his bones as he grunted. He was forced to defend.

Though the death knight was constantly retreating, it held the advantage—Axehand would have none of that. The axes were swung together, smacking the curved blade away as Axehand lunged forth⁠—

—and before the death knight could recover, an arrow whistled through the air and planted itself in one of its eyes. The death knight recoiled, and Axehand capitalized as he rained blow after blow on it, each axe strike denting the plate armor and threatening to crack it open like a dry crab shell.

The death knight growled—a hair-raising, otherworldly sound. It leaned back and planted a kick into Axehand’s abdomen, but the double-skeleton simply grinned. Using the force of the blow, he rotated, both axes coming for the death knight’s head from below with tremendous momentum.

The death knight was out of balance and had no time to dodge. It raised its blade to block. The first axe met the blade. Both weapons were flung aside, but nothing remained to stop the second axe.

An arrow flew true and pierced the death knight’s other eye, inciting rigidness in almost the same moment that Axehand’s full force strike cleaved through plate armor, bones, and undead flesh to separate the death knight’s head from its body.

It collapsed, its head following a moment later.

Axehand grunted with dissatisfaction as he turned toward Horace. The death spirit ignored him as he sprinted for Granny’s hut, heedless of everything else; Jerry would handle it, that much he’d made clear.

Everyone else stared wide-eyed at this battle that had been too fast to follow and too menacing to endure. The photomancer’s eyes threatened to jump out of their sockets. Jerry nodded, a hint of a smile shining on his lips.

“Nice cooperation, guys,” he said, while the photomancer stuttered.

“That… They…” He struggled to find the words. “What have you done!”

“I beat that clown up,” Jerry replied. “So what?”

“Fool!” He laughed out loud. “You’re all dead! Ender belonged to Archmage Arakataron! He’s going to⁠—”

“Jerry!” A shout came from a hut—it was Laura. “Run away! Hide immediately!”

“What are you⁠—”

The air above the fallen death knight shimmered. Colors slipped into existence, weaving together to form a circle. The air inside it rippled before distorting, then suddenly calming again, but Jerry could no longer see the trees and swamp behind.

Instead, all he saw was a skull with green flames for eyes and a long, thin mustache hanging down where the edges of its lips would be. The skull frowned.

“What’s going on?” it asked coldly, taking in everything at once before focusing on Jerry. “Who are you, and why are your zombies holding my grandson?”

64

RIDING THE TIGER

Everyone froze as Archmage Arakataron’s skull face appeared in a circular portal.

By now, Jerry’s previous anger had already been vented, and his head was mostly clear. He knew what an Archmages signified. Everyone did. Horror was an understandable reaction.

And Jerry was holding that person’s grandson hostage.

This can’t be good… Okay. I need time to think. And, to think, I need to stall.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “are you aware that you are trapped in a circle?”

The skull was already looking at Jerry, everybody else too scared to intervene.

“Are you mocking me?” he asked.

“Honestly? I’m just a little bit shocked. That’s a great mustache, by the way. Do you wax it?”

“You possess a death knight capable of defeating one of mine,” the skull spoke slowly. “You are clearly a powerful necromancer, but you have never been under my tutelage. Are you from the Three Kingdoms?”

“Maybe.”

“In any case, you know who I am. Release my grandson. Then, tell me why you chased after him to the point where my death knight had to sacrifice itself. I am not unreasonable. If he really was in the wrong, I can spare you.”

“I, uh…” Jerry glanced between the skull-wizard and the cocky photomancer, who by now seemed certain of his safe escape. However, if Jerry let the photomancer go like this, the tribe might come into huge trouble. The Archmage had said he wasn’t unreasonable, though Jerry strongly suspected that was only by Archmage standards. He’d only promised to spare Jerry, not punish his grandson. The Akshiks would suffer.

Therefore, Jerry scratched his head and said, “I don’t think I can do that, sir.”

The silence deepened. The skull frowned.

“What did you just say?”

“Oh, sorry, I forgot you’re across the clearing. I SAID, I DON’T THINK I CAN⁠—”

A thought knocked on his mind. A soul prodding his, trying to give a message.

You’ll get us all killed! That’s the Lich Archmage!

It was Granny, enduring her own pain to speak.

Jerry understood. Right. There’s no use delaying because nobody will come save us. I must handle this… but how?

His mind raced. Every possible scenario passed through his head—all two of them—and Jerry came to the educated conclusion that they were in dire straits.

If he let go of the photomancer, that caricature of a man would use his influence to press the issue, and the Wizard Order would slaughter the tribe outright—the woman who hid Jerry had mentioned they decimated tribes for the slightest disrespect. To them, non-wizards were the same as slaves.

If he didn’t let go, that would be blatantly opposing the Wizard Order, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out the consequences.

Oh no, he thought. The tribe is doomed!

Guilt filled Jerry’s heart. Was it his fault?

How can I save them? There must be a way!

“Well?” the skull asked.

Jerry stared at it, taking a deep breath. The tribespeople gazed at him with accusation, despair, and hope. He opened his mouth.

“I said, I will not release him. Your grandson refused to show me the respect I was due, so I will kill him. What’s the big deal about it?”

The death spirits almost had heart attacks on the spot. The photomancer’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth to speak, but on Jerry’s mental command, a Billy clamped it shut.

That’s right, Jerry thought. If there’s no way out or back… then I can only go through.

As things stood, and in the heat of the moment, only one choice came to mind: pretend that he’d attacked the photomancer for his own reasons, and that the tribe had nothing to do with it. Paint himself the villain.

He would take the full blame for everything.

The skull’s eye-flames narrowed. “My grandson clearly overestimated himself, but you should not antagonize the Wizard Order over such a paltry reason.”

“The Wizard Order is antagonizing me, Archmage. This fool insulted me, so he will die. That’s how things work—and, if you don’t like that, you can go fuck yourself.”

Hmm. Maybe I overplayed that.

“With all due respect,” he added to the lich’s stunned glare.

If his plan worked out, the tribe might be safe, sure, but he would be furiously hunted down by one of the strongest organizations in the world. He could run, but could he escape?

Only one way to find out.

Jerry never feared death to begin with. These death spirits were some of the very few people who’d ever been kind to him; he would save them, no matter what.

So what if they chase me down? The edges of his lips rose; warm, fuzzy excitement filled his chest. Death is overrated.

“Do you understand who I am?” Arakataron asked.

“An Archmage of the Wizard Order. So what?”

“I can ruin you with a thought.”

“You can try.”

“Hmph,” the skull snorted. “What are you trying to achieve? Release my grandson this instant, or I will annihilate both yourself and this puny tribe.”

Jerry erupted into laughter, and his face twisted into an unsightly visage.

“Just because I’m new in the area, you think you can step over me?” he said, darkness rising around him. “You all have no idea who you’re messing with. First, this idiot annoys me while I’m collecting crocus flowers, then his grandaddy shows up and tries to threaten me. Is that how the Wizard Order does business?”

“The Wizard Order doesn’t do business with insignificant individuals.”

“Oh, yeah? Then watch this insignificant individual kill your grandson.”

Jerry’s hand shone black as he prepared a full-power Soul Severing. The lich’s eyes widened. “NO!” he shouted.

“Oh,” Jerry said, “is this business?”

“Release him this instant, blasphemer!” Arakataron said, and the portal shook as his eye-flames turned crimson. Jerry could feel a terrifying, humongous, ancestral presence directed at him, a presence large enough to make him want to lie on the ground and die.

For the first time, Jerry wondered if Arakataron could attack him through the portal.

“I do what I want,” he replied. A clenched fist—Headless’s—smacked the photomancer on the side of the head, sending several perfect teeth rolling in the mud.

The lich’s face contorted in anger. “Don’t you dare!”

“I dare!”

“Insolence!” the lich raved, approaching the portal as its face warped even further. “Harm another hair on his body, and I will torture your soul for a hundred years.”

“Full of threats, the lot of you. Like grandfather, like grandson!” Jerry laughed. “A hair, you say?”

Darkness flowed out of Jerry’s body to attack the photomancer, who struggled to escape with everything he had. His eyes looked at the lich as he made desperate, muffled sounds.

“NO!” Arakataron shouted again, but Jerry didn’t care. His soul stretched into the photomancer’s body, and like a knife, cut his tethers. The Billies let go; the man’s body fell lifeless to the ground. Jerry hadn’t even gotten his name.

“See, Archmage?” Jerry asked. “I didn’t touch a single hair.”

Arakataron was so furious he couldn’t speak.

“How dare you!” he finally yelled. “I will destroy you! I will flay your soul until you beg for forgiveness, and I will let maggots and vermin feast on your body while your consciousness is trapped inside it!”

“It’s not even the first time I’ve heard that.” Jerry laughed uproariously. “You make all these threats, but you’re actually full of shit.”

“You—Nobody has spoken to me this way for over a century, let alone a tiny wizardling like yourself!” The flames erupted from their eye sockets. “I swear on my name and the prestige of the Wizard Order, you will regret being born.”

“No!” Jerry retorted. “You will regret it. What name, what Wizard Order? I don’t give a shit! I’ll show you who’s the real grandaddy here! Your Wizard Order has disrespected me, so I will destroy it! I, Jerry Shoeson,” he shouted at the top of his lungs, “declare war on the Wizard Order!”

The entire swamp rocked with the echo of Jerry’s voice. Everyone’s jaws had fallen so far they’d almost dislocated. Their eyes were widened to the extreme. The undead all stared at Jerry, Boney’s soul was shivering, and Axehand… Axehand’s eye sockets were filled with purple flames as he grunted, intrigued.

“Haha, hahaha!” the lich laughed, its entire skull rocking and its thin mustache swerving from side to side. “Do you even understand what you’re saying? You, declare war on the Wizard Order? Just who do you think you are?”

Suddenly, its skull stilled.

“I see what you’re doing, wizard. You were a guest of this tribe when my grandson arrived to bully them a little, and you stepped in for them. Now, you want me to forget about them, and then you plan to run away like the rat you are—but I am no fool. You can run, and the entire Wizard Order will be ordered to kill you on sight. Sooner or later, we will find you. As for this puny tribe—the Akshik, isn’t it?—they can neither run nor hide! My army will raze the entire swamp to the ground, destroy every man and woman of those death spirits you pathetically tried to defend. That is how you will pay for antagonizing the Wizard Order and Archmage Arakataron.”

Jerry clenched his fists.

“You run your mouth too much,” he said. “Who said I’m running away? I’m coming right at you, you overprized skeleton, and I will ground your bones to dust. Gather all the armies you want; you’ll still be obliterated.”

“Ridiculous!” The lich laughed again. “You are paper-thin, young one, but that’s fine. I don’t want to wait before I torture you either. Here’s the deal; come to me within a week, and I will grant these death spirits a swift death. Delay for even an hour… and they will suffer the worst fate imaginable, all because of you.”

“Of course I will come! Just tell me where.”

“The Mists of Death, in the center of the Dead Lands.” The lich’s skull warped to form a grin. “I’ll be waiting for proof of your cowardice. Do you dare tell me your real name?”

“I already did,” Jerry replied, banging his chest. “I’m Jerry Shoeson.”

“What kind of name is that?”

“It’s better than your tongue-twister. Just wait there for me; I’m coming to tear you apart. Axehand.”

On command, the double-skeleton’s axe tore through the portal, destroying it and letting Jerry have the final word. Everything stood still—and then, Jerry lowered his head at the Akshiks.

“I made the call,” he said. “I believe you were already beyond salvation, but if you want to blame anyone, blame me.”

Was he right, or was he wrong? Was this worst-case scenario doomed to happen anyway? Jerry didn’t know, but he believed his actions were correct.

The death spirits remained quiet. Bitter stares of accusation rained on Jerry, and he received them calmly.

Marcus and Laura stepped out of a hut, staying back and watching things unfold with conflicted eyes. Boney walked by Jerry and also bowed slightly, as did all undead, except for Axehand, who only grunted in disapproval.

The tribespeople were clearly full of thoughts. One person had the right to speak first.

Horace exited Granny’s hut. He was still injured, thick black blood running down his face as he glared at Jerry.

“You doomed us,” he said.

“There was no other way.”

“Would you have sacrificed Granny?” Boney asked, not raising his head. Horace turned his stare over. Boney continued, “My master acted in the heat of the moment, but he did the right thing. Would you have let that wizard torture and kill you all until he chose to back down? My master just acted when you were busy hesitating.”

A vein pulsed on Horace’s temple. He pointed his bow at Boney. “You do not get to come out on top, skeleton.”

“I believe I do.”

Axehand grunted in agreement. With two steps, he stood before Boney and Jerry, pointing an axe-hand right between Horace’s eyes. He grunted in challenge. The death spirit clenched his bow.

A new round of silence ensued as the two stared off, neither willing to budge. Their bodies tightened. Axehand grunted.

“Please, calm down,” Jerry said. “What’s done is done. Let me handle this.”

Horace retrieved his gaze. “How?”

“I will fight the Archmage.”

“Bullshit.” Horace spat on the ground—black phlegm and blood. “Do you even know what an Archmage is? They’re the pinnacles of the wizard world, the legendary three-feathered wizards, one for each school of magic. You may be strong, but you could crane your head and still not see the soles of his shoes.”

65

BETTER DIE FIGHTING THAN HIDING

Jerry’s heart shook, but he insisted.

“I can try,” he said. “Wizards are frail. An ambush, a trick… There have to be ways I can win.”

“There aren’t. You don’t even understand how terrifying Archmages are, Jerry…” Horace’s voice broke, ending in a long, trembling sigh. “This is all my fault. If I handled this better, we would have never reached this situation. Now, we’re fucked.”

Horace turned around to look at his people, then bowed. They were instantly appalled.

“Horace!” several people cried out at once. “What are you⁠—”

“I’m sorry, everyone,” he said, forehead touching the ground. “I had a duty to protect you, and I failed. Now, we will all suffer.”

In the span of a few minutes, the tribe’s long-lasting peace had been utterly torn apart. An impossible enemy wanted them dead. They were doomed, and there was absolutely nothing they could do about it.

Everything happened so fast that most of them hadn’t even realized it yet.

“You did your best, Horace!” A man and a woman hurried forward to raise him up. The woman said, “If not for you, we would have died many times over already!”

“Right, right!” The man nodded. “We owe our lives to you, Horace. If anyone should apologize, it’s us! You had to endure such humiliation to protect us. Otherwise, with your strength, you could have easily fought this wizard!”

Horace chuckled, then shook his head. “In any case, the skeleton was right. This is our fault, not theirs. Maybe, if we’d thought to cover that hole, things could have been different… but now, we’re doomed. Everything is over.”

A heavy silence blanketed the tribe. This time, it wasn’t one of fear, but of deep, morose thought. Every path ended in swift death. Jerry and his undead met each other’s gloomy sight as hushed whispers began to spread.

Boney walked up to Jerry and patted his shoulder. “Well, it was nice knowing you, Master.”

Jerry stared blankly for a second, then chuckled. “What are you talking about, Boney? I’m not dead yet—I mean, I am, but not dead, dead.”

“A matter of time, Master.” The skeleton shook his head. “If you pass away, can I have your sack of shoes?”

Horace glared over.

“This is no time for jokes,” he spat out, and Jerry waved his hand in apology.

“Sure, but I mean”—Jerry shrugged—“this sucks, but death isn’t such a big deal, is it? That Archmage only mentioned he’d torture me, so you don’t need to worry about it. Let’s just do our best for now and die when the time comes.”

Horace simply glared.

“Can I speak, everyone?” Laura walked forward, with her blue dress and long blonde hair contrasting the swamp environment. “The Wizard Order has great influence, but there are many large, barren areas in the Dead Lands. In fact, they regularly lose people here, as the terrain is so expansive and uninhabited that searching for someone is just not worth the hassle.”

New hope began to shine in the eyes of the villagers. Horace asked, “And how do you know that?”

Jerry looked on with interest. Laura stared evenly at the ground, then a sense of resignment swept over her features.

“I used to be part of the Wizard Order,” she finally replied, drawing a series of gasps—and a series of nods from the people who’d guessed it. “I ran away… and now, I will devote my life to destroying them.”

“What!” Jerry exclaimed. “You were in the Wizard Order?”

He looked around in shock, only to find puzzled faces gazing back.

“We all knew, Master…”

“Why did nobody tell me?”

“We thought it was obvious…”

“I thought you were just running away, not trying to fight them,” Marcus said to Laura.

“Of course I was running. Before achieving my Awakening, I can’t even hope to inconvenience them.” She sighed. “I didn’t plan to involve anyone, but I am the reason why Herald Maccain assaulted us in Edge Town. He was after me, not you. I’m sorry…”

“No problem,” Jerry replied. “Everyone knew already, apparently, so I guess they’re fine with it. I don’t mind either.”

“Why did you run away, though?” Boney asked. “And how?”

“I would rather not say right now.”

Marcus tilted his head. “I think we’re past that phase, Laura.”

“What do you want to know? I was born into the Order, realized they were full of shit, then I ran away when they tried to arrange my marriage.”

Jerry nodded. “My parents weren’t the best either. Good folks, but not super supportive.”

“Mine were distant and loved my older brother more than me, so I became a bandit,” Boney said. “That is, Tom did. My only parent is Master—the best necromancer I could ever ask for.”

“Ohhh, thanks Boney! I love you too! Hey, did we somehow form a team where everyone had bad parents?”

“Mine were very nice,” Marcus said. “They passed away ten years ago. I still bring flowers to their graves every time I visit Alabaster.”

“Can’t you people stay focused for more than two sentences?” Horace growled. “My tribe is in grave danger. Speak, girl. You mentioned the barren lands.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “You should all leave this place and look for another home. Any place with trees or caves will do; just don’t be visible from the sky.”

“There’s the mountain to the west,” a death spirit suggested. “It has a network of caves. We could hide there!”

“And plenty of forests around it,” another added.

“You should go even further,” Laura refuted them. “Travel for at least a few days. Have lookouts and hide if a patrol flies over you.”

The spirits discussed spiritedly with each other, latching onto this ray of hope like drowning sailors on a floating plank. Horace’s crisp voice cut through their whispers.

“Do you honestly think we can make it? This is a huge gamble. If they catch us…”

He did not finish his sentence, but the meaning was clear. Laura bit her lip.

“What other choice is there? You certainly have a shot if you’re careful. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“The person after you is an Archmage, one of the Order’s leaders. I’m afraid he won’t just give up… If the Order really wants to capture you, they can find ways. Biomancers who speak with animals, necromancers able to commune with the wild undead, intensive patrols around this area… I won’t lie to you; your only hope is that Jerry enraged the Archmage so much that all resources will be focused on him.”

“He did seem pretty mad,” Boney supplied. “His eyes would have certainly popped out, if he had any.”

Horace struck him with a hard glare. “So? Should we still run?”

“Honestly, you have no choice. Try to escape, and if it works, it works. The only other option would be to actually fight the Archmage, which is beyond hopeless, or capture Jerry and surrender him to the Order, which will likely end up with them killing you anyway.”

“Is he really that strong?” Jerry asked. “I mean, he’s just a wizard, right? If we can somehow sneak up on him, maybe we can take him out in the blink of an eye.”

“I told you, that’s impossible,” Horace said. “Archmages are practically invincible.”

“That’s not quite true,” Laura said, making a few brows raise. “Archmages are much more durable than normal people, sure, and they have defensive measures of their own, but they’re not infallible. Assassinating an Archmage is not unheard of, just extremely rare.”

“It’s unheard of to me. Are you sure?”

“Very. Their invincibility is propaganda. The reason why fighting him is hopeless is that Archmages are fiercely intelligent and unreasonably experienced. They’re always ten steps ahead. Couple that with their world-ending magical powers, and well… you get the point.”

“Oh,” Jerry exclaimed. “Then, we can just attack him, right?”

“Did you not listen to a word I said?” she snapped at him. “We cannot!”

“Why not? He can be as intelligent and experienced as he wants, but we can just be unpredictable—chaotic. If we don’t know what we’re going to do, the enemy can’t know either.”

“That’s about the stupidest thing I have ever heard,” Marcus replied, “and I wouldn’t want to risk my life against certain death.”

“Well, what choice do we have?” Horace said, clenching his bow. “These Wizard Order bastards have slaughtered tribes for much less. They stop at nothing to defend their honor. We must slay him, or we are doomed… Fortunately, it looks like that lich is not unkillable. I think I can do it.”

“Is nobody listening to me?” Laura complained.

“As I hear it, Master is already a goner. That Archmage—Akakakaka or something—will utilize the entire Order to hunt us down,” Boney said, sighing deeply. “We might as well give it a shot…”

Boney didn’t really want this. He would much prefer ditching the tribe and hiding somewhere by themselves, or even taking the airship and running back to the Three Kingdoms, but he knew his master—he was stubborn to death and righteous to a fault.

Axehand grunted, raising an axe in the air. The rest of the undead huddled around Jerry, who nodded.

“Yes,” Jerry said. “That’s what I meant, of course—most of it was just implied. We’re going lich-hunting.”

“You people make no sense…” Laura’s eyes threatened to pop out. “Are you listening to yourselves? We’re talking about an Archmage!”

“I’m no fighter!” Marcus said.

“You’re a captain,” Jerry retorted, motioning at the photomancer’s vehicle. “Our airship could use you. If not… there’s a flying boat right here. I won’t blame you if you take it and return to Edge Town.”

“But think of all the treasure,” Boney whispered, sliding to Marcus’s side. “Mountains of taels, just waiting for you to dive in. Oh, how sad those poor coins must be with no one to hold them… I guess we’ll just take them all.”

“I’m not stupid, Boney,” Marcus said, crossing his arms.

“But this is the treasure of Dorman we’re talking about,” Boney’s whisper insisted, speaking the words especially low so no one could overhear. “The greatest treasure in existence. How can you call yourself a treasure hunter if you turn tail now? Imagine all the riches, the fame, the glory…” He grabbed Marcus by the shoulder, gesturing widely with his other hand at an imaginary mountain of coins. “Everything you’ve ever dreamt of is there… Plus, we’re confident enough, or we wouldn’t go.”

“You would, because you’re stupid.”

“We’re strong, too.”

“Hmph.”

Marcus kept his arms crossed as his mustache wiggled in thought. A moment later, he raised his head. “Okay. There’s nobody waiting for me, anyway. Worst-case, I die. Best-case, I become absolutely filthy rich. I would have asked for a larger cut of the treasure if it wasn’t already ninety-nine percent.”

“That’s the spirit!” Jerry pumped a fist. “What about you, Laura?”

Everyone gazed at her, and she shook her head furiously. “You people are insane. I literally just explained why this is impossible.”

“No.” Jerry raised a finger. “You explained why it is possible.”

“I can’t believe you. This is ridiculous. We don’t even have a two-feather wizard, and you want to fight an Archmage.”

“We defeated a Herald.”

“That’s not even close.”

“Consider it this way, Laura.” Boney slid to her side from Marcus’s. “You clearly have a bone to pick with the Order. What better time to fight them than now? Sure, maybe Master hasn’t Awakened yet, but does it really matter? You’ve seen Axehand. Tell me that’s the power of a single feather.”

She only glared at him.

“Your assistance could be the difference between victory or defeat,” the skeleton continued. “Where will you find a better opportunity to get back at them? Who else is crazy enough to do what we do?”

“Don’t pressure people too much, Boney,” Jerry said.

“Yes, Master.”

Laura crossed her arms. “I’ll consider it.”

Jerry smiled. “That’s more than enough. Now… I suppose we should get things started, right?”

“Right,” Horace spoke up. “Everyone, gather your important things and let’s meet here in ten minutes. There is no time to waste. You don’t need to sleep through the night, so you can march. I’ll join the lich-hunting.”

“Is this really it?” a death spirit said, looking around in disbelief. “We’re just leaving everything? This is our home!”

“We have to.”

“This is too abrupt!”

“What if we meet hostile undead?” another asked. “Without you…”

“Don’t whine. Most of you know how to fight. You can easily handle anything less than a horde, and you have the hardiness of undead, too. This is a risk we must take. I…” Horace warred with himself. “I have devoted my life to protecting you, and I will continue to do so until the day I die. However, right now, the best way to protect you is by fighting the tribe’s enemy. When everything is over, I will find you again.”

The death spirits looked at each other. Then, under a heavy mood, they dispersed.

The Akshik tribe had lost its home and would now become wanderers, at least for a short while. Horace shook his head, struggling to digest this sudden change.

Why did this happen to us? It came out of nowhere… Why is the world so unfair?

“Well said, Horace,” Jerry said, stepping beside him. “How’s Granny?”

He glanced over, his lips revealing a tiny smile. “She’s injured, but Granny’s not as weak as she seems. I need to ask you for a favor, Jerry; can your undead help me build a shader for her? She needs to move with everyone else, and she doesn’t handle the sun well.”

“Of course!” the necromancer replied, and the Billies immediately approached. He flexed his small biceps. “I will help, too!”

“Sure.” Horace smiled, his eyes flickering to the side. “Oh? Start without me, everyone. Granny has something to tell me.”

“Alright. We’ll make the best shader ever!”

66

ENTERING THE MISTS

The penalty of magic is present in everything.

Five schools of magic. Five types of nature spirits. Five Archmages. Five Primordials.

Why is our entire world built around photomancy, biomancy, pyromancy, hydromancy, and necromancy? These five obviously form some sort of complete system, but how? Why not aeromancy or metalomancy? No school of magic can control those elements, so where are they?

Perhaps, every type of magic originates from somewhere. Is it the Primordials, or something deeper? Did all other types of magic go extinct in ancient history, or are they going to appear in the future?

And what the hell happened during the Great Enigma?

What a mysterious world we live in. I love it.

- From the personal notes of Erland, the founder of the Moonlight Kingdom’s Wizard Tower

The Akshik tribe was quick on its feet.

Half an hour later, the tribespeople were all gathered under the moonlight, hoisting bags and sacks of valuables. Of course, their valuables weren’t gold or silver—they were instruments and paintings, written stories and statuettes. The greatest masterpieces would trek through the Dead Lands on the backs of refugees.

While getting ready, they also had time to digest the recent events.

The Akshik tribe had lived peacefully in its swamp for six decades before the Wizard Order intruded on an otherwise joy-filled evening. In the span of a few minutes, they almost died, killed a member of the Wizard Order, then utterly antagonized one of the strongest people in existence. Now, they would run for their lives, hoping they weren’t worth the hassle—or that Jerry, Horace, and the rest of them would prevail over an Archmage.

“What do you think, Horace?” Jerry stepped beside the hunter, watching as the tribespeople encouraged and reassured each other that everything would be fine.

“My heart is heavy, Jerry… This is the time to protect my people, and yet I leave them behind.”

“That is the way to protect them. The Order won’t let you escape, even if you run. Unless we pull the problem from its root, your tribe is doomed.”

Horace nodded, his mind elsewhere. “Can I confess something, Jerry?”

“Sure.”

“I am excited.”

Jerry smiled. “Is that so?’

“You remember what I said before.” Horace gazed at his pale, muscular hands, slowly clenching them into fists. His voice rumbled deeply as he said, “I have yearned for the outside world for decades. I want to learn what I am, see what the world has to offer besides wet soil and broken trees, meet people who can match my powers, and rediscover my limits. Duty has always kept me tied here, and now, it’s throwing me at what I desire… My tribe is on the verge of extinction, and yet, my entire body shivers with excitement. Tell me, Jerry; should I be ashamed?”

Jerry let his question stew between them, then said, “I just think you’re lucky.”

Horace glanced up, then chuckled. “I think so, too. In any case, I plan to enjoy this while it lasts.”

“Lucky and wise.”

“A long life tends to do that.”

“Have you ever been to the outside world?”

Horace nodded. “I have… but I was very young, then, and it’s been a long time.”

“I see.”

The tribespeople were gathered around Granny’s hut now, placing a covered cart right before it. The cart’s back was hidden behind cloth curtains, as was its top, and beddings had been placed inside it, where Granny would rest. She couldn’t walk by herself.

“Come on, Horace!” a man shouted, and the hunter walked over to help. Entering the hut, he exited a moment later with a blanketed form in his arms, depositing her in the cart and closing the flap behind him.

“There you go, Granny,” he said tenderly. “I will return soon.”

“We’ll keep her safe, Horace,” a death spirit assured him.

“I hope you can all stay safe, my friend.” He sighed. “What’s done is done. Are you ready to go?”

Each death spirit carried a single bag or sack with their most beloved belongings. Almost everything had been left behind, with some things even carelessly strewn about the campfire, including the photomancer’s and the death knight’s bodies—the former would lose its magical abilities if reanimated, and the latter couldn’t be reanimated, anyway.

The only other things they would take along were Granny’s cart—it was light, so everyone could easily take turns pulling—and the photomancer’s flying boat, which they could use to scout ahead when necessary. Jerry and the group could have used that boat as well, but giving it to the tribespeople was the least they could do. Jerry even considered sending a few undead to help them, though he eventually chose not to.

All the death spirits—a few dozens, no more—took in the reluctance in each other’s gazes. “We are not ready… but we must go,” a woman said, and reluctance was replaced by conviction.

“From today onward, this is no longer the home of the Akshik tribe,” Horace declared with a heavy voice, glancing around at their home of five decades. “A tribe is its people. In the end, this place is only soil, rock, and wood. As long as we live, we can rebuild. We’ve lost nothing.”

“Our lives are everything,” the death spirits agreed as one, sparing a long, final look at their former homes.

“Goodbye, Horace,” they said. “We’re sorry you have to carry this weight for us…”

“My power was born to protect you.” He waved an arm. “Rest assured, everyone. I will return a winner or not at all.”

“Don’t say that!” A woman stepped forth. “If you cannot win, just run away. Save yourself first.”

“Thank you, but I know my place. Go; every moment wasted increases the danger to your lives.”

The death spirits looked at each other again. One by one, they lightly bowed their heads at Horace, then took off, and two stepped up to pull Granny’s cart.

The Akshik tribe had been uprooted. Whether they would find a new home or perish to their pursuers, that was now up to the whims of fate. They could only pray.

Horace watched them go until they’d crossed the tree line and disappeared, then for some time more. Jerry and the others waited patiently.

Finally, the death spirit turned around. His pale skin reflected the moonlight, and his pitch-black eyes seemed clear and resolute. “Thank you for waiting. I’m ready. Let’s go.”

“Let’s.”

Horace’s body shivered with barely constrained excitement. Only Jerry saw his eyes tremble.

Jerry, Horace, Marcus, Laura, and all the undead departed together, a second procession heading in the opposite direction from the tribespeople. From then on, the Akshik tribe’s home in the swamp stood alone, waiting for nature to inevitably reclaim it.

The airship once again sailed through the sky, cutting through air and clouds alike.

“This is incredible!” Horace repeated for the thousandth time, leaning over the railing. “I can see everything! Look! My entire swamp is one eyeful!”

“Airships are awesome,” Jerry agreed. “I’m so glad we found one to borrow.”

“What kind of lunatic would lend an airship?”

“We didn’t really ask… but we plan to return it!”

“I see.” Horace nodded. “That kind of borrowing.”

“The owner wouldn’t disagree,” Boney cut in. “He’s too dead to ride an airship.”

“But you aren’t?”

“Actually, this airship belongs to the king of Escarbot,” Laura explained. “The count just had it in his garden.”

Everyone nodded.

“Say, Horace.” Jerry grinned. “Do you think you could hit a zombie from this height?”

“No. I can’t predict the wind.”

“What if there was no wind?”

Horace considered it, inspecting the distance to the ground. “Then, possibly, yeah.”

“Look, Master,” Boney said, pointing forward, “another cloud!”

“Yahoo!”

“Hold her steady, men!” Marcus shouted, and the ship dived into the gray haze.

They were trying to avoid any untoward eyes, so the airship had risen all the way to the clouds, moving from one to the next like a bunny jumping between bushes. The Dead Lands were cloudy, thankfully, so they had good chances of avoiding the Order’s patrols.

On the downside, the Dead Lands were generally a cold area due to being so high north, and the air up here was absolutely frigid. The clouds’ inner moisture didn’t help.

Pulling her blankets tight, Laura wordlessly left for the deck below. Marcus shivered on the wheel. Everyone else was perfectly fine.

“If it’s this cold, it might as well snow,” Jerry complained, turning to his undead. “Remember those snowmen we’d built, guys? Now we have the Billies, too. Maybe we can finally beat Axehand!”

The double-skeleton grunted, grinding his two axes together.

“Maybe we could get Laura to make some water, Master,” Boney suggested, “and then wait for it to turn into snow.”

“It doesn’t work that way!” she shouted from below deck. “Also, I’m cold!”

“So what? You won’t be colder if we have some fun.”

“Be polite, Boney.” Jerry laughed. “Let’s leave it up to fate.”

“Very well, Master.”

“Headless!” Marcus shouted. “We’re about to exit the cloud. Is it clear?”

Headless saluted where his forehead would be. His head was currently tied at the end of a long rope, and as Marcus gave the order, he slowly lowered the rope over the railing until the head disappeared into the cloud’s heavy mist. Eventually, a head dangled below the cloud, and Headless could admire the view. He gave a thumbs-up.

“All clear, boys,” Marcus said. “Open the sails. Forward!”

Birb could have done the same thing in a much simpler fashion, but Jerry insisted this way was more fun. The zombie bird was perched on Headless’s head as an extra pair of eyes.

The Billies shouted from above the masts as they let the sails unfold, and the ship accelerated until it broke out of the cloud and into the overcast skies of the Dead Lands. Everyone took a deep breath.

They had been traveling for two days already. Undead still wandered aimlessly on the barren plains and hills below, and they only increased in number as the group approached the center of the Dead Lands, where the Mists of Death were located.

In fact, they were almost there.

“Look, everyone!” Jerry said, pointing in the distance. “I think I see it!”

Everyone gathered on the ship’s prow, squinting as they peered at the horizon.

“It’s true!” Horace said, whose eyes were sharper than an eagle’s. “That’s the Mists of Death!”

“We made it!” Boney clapped. “Take that, flying whales and stuck-up wizards!”

As they kept sailing, the dark shape on the horizon expanded. From up here, they had a pretty good view.

The Mists of Death were the localized environ in the center of the Dead Lands. It was a place completely steeped in necromantic energies, making it even more dangerous than its surroundings. If there was a way to lift the Curse—or something powering it, as Horace had said—it would be in there. The Mists also hosted Dorman’s treasure, according to Marcus’s instructions, and Archmage Arakataron. This was the convergence of their every goal.

“Horace,” Marcus called out. “Ever heard of the Valley of Kings?”

“Yeah,” Horace replied.

“It should be in there, right?”

“Somewhere close to the center. Why do you ask?”

Marcus smiled under his mustache. “No reason.”

The Mists of Death were shaped as a massive dome. A dark curtain rose from the ground to tremendous heights, almost reaching the clouds, and its sides curved inwards the higher one went. The Mists were also enormous, enveloping an expanse so vast that, when looking at its boundary from the ground, it resembled a straight line despite curving as a hemisphere.

The closer they got, the more Jerry realized he’d still underestimated the size. They kept going and going, and the Mists grew larger in their sight until they covered the entire horizon, and they still weren’t there.

“How big is that thing?” Jerry asked as the ship began its descent—they could have entered the Mists from above, of course, but that felt incredibly unorthodox, as well as dangerous.

“Hundreds of miles in diameter,” Laura replied. “And once you’re inside, the limited visibility makes it seem completely endless.”

“It’s like an extra set of Dead Lands inside the Dead Lands.” Marcus laughed over the howling wind. “An area teeming with danger, where the entire Dead Lands’ death energy gathers. The fauna inside isn’t just undead, it’s mutated!”

“Mutated?”

“Yes, but don’t worry. The air is okay; it’s the ground you want to avoid.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’ll see.”

The Mists of Death loomed over desolate, barren earth, cracked and filled with rocks. The airship flew true, directly for the impenetrable darkness, the ship’s size completely insignificant before this natural behemoth.

Their horizon was filled with slithering, invasive darkness. Everyone gulped. They clenched their weapons. Axehand grunted. Boney cluckled nervously. Jerry’s eyes shone with awe. Horace shot an experimental arrow.

The airship slipped into the Mists and disappeared.

67

THE MISTS OF DEATH

The Mists of Death were a place of darkness.

The earth and sky were shrouded, while the billowing winds carried the chilling touch of death. Visibility was terrible, making the airship float alone in what seemed like infinite, all-encompassing darkness. Only an ever-present glow, like the last ray of a setting sun, prevented the Mists of Death from being totally impenetrable, as if the Gods decided to show the mortals of this land at least some pity.

According to Laura, this glow was eternally trapped sunlight, unable to find its way out of the darkness.

“What a cheery place,” Boney said.

“It makes the Dead Lands seem full of life.” Jerry shook his head. “Do you think we should approach the ground, Marcus? We could be moving in circles.”

“That’s a good idea, as long as we don’t land.”

The ship descended. Streams of darkness flowed around them, obstructing their sight at times, and they exuded a cold so biting that it threatened one’s heart to stop beating.

The ground came into sight. It was barren, cracked, dry, and strewn with bones—a perfect image of what hell might have looked like, or maybe a desolate desert.

“Even the undead cannot survive here,” Laura muttered. “They break apart, and their bones get scattered in the four winds…”

“You liar! Look! There’s a goat!” Jerry said.

Everyone followed his gaze. A goat-like animal wandered below, colored entirely black and with three sets of horns—it chewed on bones.

“I told you, the animals here are mutated,” the treasure hunter explained. “That thing is clearly abnormal.”

“But what if it’s actually friendly?” Jerry asked. “Should we go check?”

“Anything that can survive such a high concentration of death energy is bound to be hostile, Master…”

“Boney’s right,” Laura said. “The only harmless creatures here are small birds which are said to bring good luck. Besides those, trust nothing and nobody. In this place, everything is death.”

“You mentioned high concentration of death energy. Will the wood nettle potion be enough?” Marcus asked.

“With a double dosage, yes, but we’ll get stomach ulcers if we stay here too long.”

“Really? The explorers of Alabaster didn’t know that.”

“Maybe that’s why they died.”

“No.” Marcus shook his head. “That was due to the tentacle monsters.”

“The what?”

As the goat-like animal traveled below them, it passed by a wide crevice, one of the many that littered the ground. Two black tentacles shot out instantly.

The fight was intense but short. The goat only had time to bleat and move its head around a couple of times before the tentacles got a firm grip, one wrapped around its throat and the other its waist. A third tentacle lashed at its hind legs, and the three of them quickly dragged the bleating goat into the dark crevice, where it barely fit.

A loud, sickening crunch later, everything went quiet.

“What the hell was that?” Horace was the first to speak.

“I told you; tentacle monsters.” Marcus shrugged. “They inhabit the crevices and never exit. They don’t need to eat—they survive on death energy—but meat helps them reproduce.”

“Reproduce?”

“Yes. According to a group of explorers who made it out, these tentacle monsters release a spore cloud that gets scattered by the winds. If a spore lands in an empty crevice, it may mature into a new tentacle monster. That’s how they spread around the entire Mists.”

“Spore cloud?” Jerry asked. “Are you saying these things are plants?”

“This is the Mists of Death. Who can tell? I just know they’re everywhere and make traveling on the ground a total bitch.”

“I’m so glad we borrowed this airship,” Jerry repeated his earlier statement, letting out a chuckle. “So, uh… Where do we go?”

“Arakataron should be where the death energy is densest, so at the center of the Mists,” Laura said. “The Mists are a perfect hemisphere, and we dove straight into them, so we should reach there if we maintain our current course. The landmarks below can help us avoid deviations.”

“Sure,” Marcus said. “You heard her, boys; steady course ahead! I’ll keep a lookout for landmarks to make sure we’re going straight.”

The Billies roared in agreement. However, somebody disagreed.

“Actually,” Horace said, taking a step forward to command everyone’s attention, “I have another suggestion. Granny used to be a high-ranking member of the Order, and she knows a lot of things. Specifically… she knows how to break the Curse.”

The revelation fell like a ten-ton brick.

“Break the Curse!” Everyone jumped up, especially Jerry. “Are you serious?”

“Very. That’s what she told me before leaving. If you people really dared dive into the Mists, I was supposed to reveal everything.”

“Then tell us already!” Jerry ushered. “Don’t keep us waiting!”

“Very well.”

The airship crossed the darkness, flying over tentacle monster-infested crevices and all sorts of mutated animals—Jerry really wanted to take a look at them, but learning about the Curse took precedence. That was the whole reason he’d come to the Dead Lands!

“The Curse is caused by a very elaborate magical device,” Horace began. “It isn’t really a curse, or a plague. Just a series of death energy ripples constantly emitted from that device, strong enough to spread all the way from the center to the edges of the Dead Lands. These ripples are formless and invisible, but as they repeatedly strike a living being, the death energy in its body accumulates until it becomes too much to bear.”

“That’s why even the sky seems filled with death!” Laura exclaimed.

“Precisely,” Horace confirmed. “This device is modeled after a legendary relic, the Soul Prism, said to hold the essence of necromancy… which, by the way, the Wizard Order believes is real.”

Marcus and Laura exchanged glances. “This is the first time I’ve heard about a Soul Prism,” Marcus said.

“Not surprising. The five Prisms have been lost since the Great Enigma, and even the few who’ve read about them believe them to be legends. Granny thinks so, too, but the Order’s Archmages were adamant, so they might know something more. If the legends are to be believed, the last known location of the Prism was here, in the northern part of this continent. In fact, that’s one of the reasons why the Curse was unleashed here. They hoped the Prism would react with the Curse’s energy, allowing them to locate it, but that didn’t happen. Therefore, they’re forced to rely on the fake Prism they’ve engineered, even though maintaining it takes a staggering amount of resources.”

“So, the Curse was created just to locate this Soul Prism?” Boney asked.

“Granny wasn’t privy to everything, but finding the Soul Prism was definitely part of the reason. The other part was Arakataron’s magnum opus: a massive necromantic ritual said to give him access to a powerful weapon.”

“I can confirm that,” Laura said. “He’s been working on that ritual non-stop since the Curse’s inception. Many Order members are unhappy about it.”

“For fifty years?” Jerry looked up at the dark sky, where black streams flowed in all directions like dresses in the wind. “Doesn’t he miss the sun at all?”

“I guess not. In any case, the Order has stubbornly maintained that fake Prism for fifty years, enshrouding our land in the Curse. They’ve even built a defensive complex around it, a place they call the Prism Dungeon. To break the Curse, we just have to raid that dungeon, destroy the Prism, and then the death energy will naturally dissipate over a few months.”

“What, just that?” Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “There has to be a catch. Otherwise, the Archmages of the Wizard Tower would easily infer the situation, then waltz in here and destroy that fake Prism. They antagonize the Wizard Order.”

“They could… but, to those assholes, going to war over the already ruined Dead Lands is not worth it.” He spat on the deck. “The Wizard Tower is not kind, just less evil than the Order. Bastards, the lot of them.”

“I don’t buy it. If we can do it, plenty of people can,” Marcus said.

Horace gave him a level stare. “I don’t think you understand how special Jerry is, treasure hunter… Not to mention that this information is extremely taboo. I am not playing you for a fool.”

Marcus narrowed his eyes, while Jerry giggled.

“Thanks for the compliment, Horace. So, there is no catch?” Jerry asked.

“No, there is one; it just doesn’t affect us.” The death spirit smirked. “The fake Prism was created by Arakataron himself, the only person in the world capable of doing so. If we destroyed it, he could just recreate it before the Curse has time to dissipate. We would have achieved nothing except incurring some material cost for the Order.”

“Unless Arakataron couldn’t repair it,” Boney mused. Laura chuckled. “If he was dead, for example.”

“Exactly!” Horace smiled widely, clenching his fist. “Assassinating Arakataron was already our goal. If we destroy that fake Prism, too, we can truly break the Curse!”

“That’s amazing!” Jerry pumped a fist. “I told you I could lift the Curse!”

Horace laughed. “That remains to be seen, my friend.”

Laura, however, didn’t appear entirely convinced. “That Prism sounds like a device of massive power, and Arakataron’s ritual, whatever it is, must be highly complex as well. I doubt those two are anywhere near each other, or there would be serious interference. We probably have to get them one by one.”

“Fine by me.” Jerry laughed. “So, what should we go for first? Arakataron or the fake Prism?”

“Arakataron, of course! Otherwise, he’ll definitely know we broke it and will be ready to fight us,” Horace said.

“Actually,” Laura said, winking at Horace, “I have a different idea.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve heard some things about Arakataron. He’s arrogant, but he’s also constantly surrounded by a large squad of death knights. Getting past them to ambush him will be difficult.”

“So? What do you suggest?”

“Well, Arakataron is obsessed with his project, to the point where he even refuses to see most guests. If he senses that someone is attacking the fake Prism, do you think he will go there himself?”

“No!” Boney said. “He’ll send his death knights!”

“Exactly!” She smiled. “He’ll send a good number of death knights over, then forget about the issue to keep working. Remember, he’s arrogant, and a necromancer’s detection abilities are second to none so he won’t be afraid. Then, if we somehow manage to escape his death knights and attack him while they’re away, a large part of his power will be missing. Maybe we’ll have a chance.”

“So, we should use the fake Prism as a diversion?” Horace asked, musing it over.

“Yes. It’s risky, of course, but I think our chances of success will be higher than facing his entire army of death knights. Approaching him unnoticed is almost impossible, anyway.”

Marcus narrowed his eyes, simultaneously looking down to keep the landmarks in mind and adjust their course. “That’s some very specific information you have there, Laura… Just how high-ranking were you in the Wizard Order?”

“Not at all, but my parents were very,” she replied.

“Laura’s smart. I say we go with her plan,” Jerry said.

“I agree with Master.”

“I trust you too,” Horace said. “You have my bow.”

Axehand raised an axe.

“And my undead!” Jerry said, laughing. “We make a great team.”

“We’re all agreed,” Marcus concluded. “Now, where is that fake Prism, Horace?”

“I have no idea,” he replied with a straight face. Everyone gazed at him incredulously, and he held their gazes for a good few seconds before adding, “but Jerry should be able to sense its location, according to Granny.”

“Hmm? Sense it?”

Jerry looked around, then closed his eyes and focused on his soul. He spread it out as far as he could, sensing the souls of everyone on board and another mutated goat below. He felt a tentacle monster too, a mindless, beastly creature lurking in a wide crevice.

Even Birb’s soul was within his detection range, though it flew far ahead of the airship to detect danger. Birb played an extremely important role in protecting them from mishaps.

Huh. I’ve gotten stronger again, haven’t I?

Last time he’d tried this, his range had been shorter.

Though despite sensing all these creatures, Jerry could sense no Curs⁠—

Wait. What’s that?

Something tickled the back of his mind. Something wasn’t quite right. He doubled down on his soul perception, investigating a patch of empty air, and there it was! A ripple flowing through his soul, so tiny he wouldn’t have noticed it if he wasn’t this close and specifically looking for it.

It spread over the airship and everyone, into their bodies, over the ground below, and into every crevice. Jerry could sense its direction. It was coming from somewhere. His finger was already pointing there before he opened his eyes.

“Found it,” he said. “There are ripples coming from there.”

The direction he pointed at was slightly to the left of their current course, raising a couple of brows.

“Shouldn’t the fake Prism be at the center of the Mists?” Marcus asked. His question made sense, though nobody had a good answer.

“Maybe we’re off course.” Jerry shrugged.

“We wouldn’t be. I was keeping watch.”

“Well, the source of the Curse is in that direction.”

Laura frowned. “That’s odd. If the fake Prism is not at the center, Arakataron’s ritual probably is. In any case, I don’t think navigation will be a problem. If the two are anywhere near each other, Jerry should be able to sense the magic fluctuations and guide us.”

“He can really do that?” Marcus asked.

“I can do that?” Jerry asked.

“Yes…”

“Excellent.” Horace stepped in. “Now, let’s get going before these tentacle monsters learn to fly.”

“Wouldn’t that be unfortunate,” Boney said with a cluckle. Marcus barked some orders, the Billies turned the sails, and the ship slowly turned. Jerry kept his eyes closed as he constantly sensed the ripples, guiding them better than any landmark could.

Gradually, the ripples grew stronger. As the hours passed, they approached the Prism Dungeon.

68

ENTERING WITH A BANG

The darkness endlessly zoomed past, the dry earth below giving its place to more dry earth. Traveling the Mists of Death gave the illusion of wandering a fake world where space had little meaning.

It was awe-inspiring, in a sense. Terrifying, in another.

“It’s been hours!” Boney complained. “Are we getting there, Laura? Just how large are these Mists?”

“Very,” she replied. “I told you, it’s a few hundred miles in diameter. That’s a lot, even for an airship.”

“So more than a bone’s throw away.”

She facepalmed. “How long have you been thinking about that?”

“The last couple hours. I’m running low on bone puns.”

“I can tell. That one sucked. In any case, Jerry is the one guiding us. How should I know when we’re going to arrive?”

The terrain moved as they traveled, but nothing really changed, which created a creepy unease in everyone’s hearts.

“Hmm?” Jerry perked up. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That!”

He pointed beyond the railing, into the endless expanse and its swirling dark gusts. Something was different there. There was no dungeon in sight, but there was a pair of pitch-black birds, barely visible in the background. If not for Jerry’s soul sense being constantly active, he would have missed them.

“Birds?” Boney wondered aloud. “Is this the mutated fauna you mentioned, Marcus?”

“Probably,” he responded. “Be careful!”

“Will do. Did you hear that, Master?”

Jerry did not reply, already busy leaning out of the railing and waving the little birds over.

“Of course, Master, ignore everyone’s wisdom. What could possibly go wrong?” Boney grumbled as he walked to Jerry’s side, nonetheless. “They don’t seem to like us.”

“They’re flying alongside our ship, Boney. Sure they do!”

Laura laughed. “These are the birds I mentioned before. Don’t worry, they’re harmless.”

Boney sighed. Jerry exclaimed, “I have an idea!”

His soul perception focused around the birds, nudging them politely. They turned to regard him. He beckoned them over. They flew closer.

Axehand moved up to Jerry’s side, just in case, but his caution was unnecessary.

The two birds simply flew over and hovered beside Jerry, more curious than aggressive. They seemed quite harmless, and when Laura extended a finger, one of the birds landed on it.

“They’re cute.” She smiled. “And they’re said to bring good luck.”

“Well, that’s exactly what we needed!” Boney cluckled, while Jerry asked whether they had a name.

“Not that I know of,” she responded. “Little black birds, I guess.”

The two birds were small, about the size of a closed fist, and their eyes shone a soft red, contrasting their pitch-black bodies and white beaks.

Jerry shook his head. “That’s not right. They must have a name. How about Darkbirds?”

“That’s… awfully imaginative, Master.”

“Whitebeaks?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s taken.”

“Mistwings?”

“How about Hopewings?” Laura asked, petting the top of a bird’s head with her other finger. The bird shivered in pleasure. “It’s a nice name… and they restore hope to those lost in the Mists. Legends say that if you follow them, they will show you a way out.”

Jerry and Boney looked at each other. “Sure,” Jerry said. “It’s a nice name.”

Boney cupped his bone chin. “Since they show the way out, we could tie them to the back of our ship and go the opposite way of where they want to fly.”

Laura glared. He cowered.

“If they’re a traveler’s last hope, let’s not hog them.” Jerry smiled. “We have plenty of hope already.”

“Weren’t we hopeless?”

“Never!”

Laura raised her finger, gently letting the bird fly off, and the two of them disappeared into the Mists. “Goodbye, little hopewings,” she said, and her ever-restrained smile turned genuine for a moment.

Their journey continued, parting wave after wave of death energy. Besides being cold to the touch, it didn’t affect them at all—but, of course, if they weren’t taking a double dosage of the wood nettle potion, Marcus and Laura would have already turned into wild undead.

Time lost its meaning.

Another hour later, something finally changed. The air turned chillier, the darkness deeper, and the mutated animals below disappeared, only to be replaced with an increased number of crevices.

Jerry’s eyes snapped open. “We’re close. Stop the ship!”

The Billies closed the sails, and the ship came to a halt in midair. Everyone looked at Jerry, who had his eyes closed again.

“Birb can see it,” he said. “Give me a moment.”

Jerry borrowed Birb’s senses—it had been serving as their scout—and quickly looked over the Prism Dungeon.

“I think we can approach,” he said. “Just go slowly, so we stop as soon as we see it.”

The airship proceeded at a snail’s pace and the darkness on the horizon parted as a building appeared. It was black and shaped like a pyramid, except its sides resembled stairs instead of straight lines; this was a ziggurat.

From their current position, they could see the ziggurat rising sixty feet off the ground, its multiple floors occupied by a small army of zombies and skeletons. It was as if a horde had invaded and conquered this place, calling it their home. Now, the undead stood aimlessly on the ziggurat’s floors or wandered around its base, wasting an eternity away.

However, contrary to what one might expect, the ziggurat’s walls shone and reflected the ever-present light, casting random shadows like a beacon of darkness.

Horace squinted. “That’s not stone. It’s glass.”

“Glass?”

“Yes. I don’t know why, but that entire thing is made of glass.”

Everyone stared at him, but he seemed confident; no one would doubt an archer’s sight.

“The dungeon is supposed to protect the fake Prism, right?” Marcus asked. “Why make it out of glass?”

Laura hummed. “Glass has some interesting magical properties, so maybe this is meant to amplify the death energy ripples. That’s the only reason I can think of. The Prism itself is hidden deep in the ground below the ziggurat; that’s why they call this place a dungeon.”

“Can’t we just dig our way to it?”

“I can only feel the ripples coming from the ziggurat itself,” Jerry said. “If the fake Prism is hidden below, I can’t sense it. We’ll have to go in the normal way.”

“So, we raid it,” she concluded.

“Yes, but time is of the essence. Arakataron will certainly have eyes around this area, so we must be quick,” Marcus said.

“That doesn’t sound easy.” Jerry tsked. “There have to be hundreds of undead around the ziggurat. Going through them will take time, even if we send in an overcharged Axehand—and that’s if they don’t overwhelm him.”

The axe-handed skeleton grunted in disdain, claiming he would never lose to an army of weaklings.

“I don’t see a faster way…” Laura admitted. “We have to go through them, whether we like it or not.”

“But the thing is,” Marcus said, “the clock is not our friend. Even if we get past the horde and discover the entrance to the true dungeon, there must be more defenses underground, and Arakataron’s army might arrive within the hour. I don’t think we can make it in time.”

Everyone exchanged somber looks.

“Maybe we could just break the ziggurat and run away?” Boney offered, but Horace shook his head.

“That will warn Arakataron of our presence, as we intended, but it won’t stop the Curse. At most, it will limit its range. The ziggurat is only amplifying the ripples, so destroying it alone will mean little. We have to get to the source.”

“We could do that still,” Marcus said. “Break the ziggurat to call over Arakataron’s death knight army, rush to attack him, then return to destroy the fake Prism.”

“We could,” Boney said, “but since we’re here, we might as well destroy it now. Assuming we find a good plan. If not, we’ll have to default to Marcus’s idea.”

They stewed in thought. Laura was the one to finally speak.

“I guess that’s our only option. Let’s destroy the ziggurat to lure Arakataron’s forces, then try to ambush him, then return for the Prism. I mean, that invites a bunch of complications, because what if they see we ran away and realize our plan? What if this gives more Wizard Order members the time to arrive? But, I think it’s the best we can do. Going in blind is too dangerous.”

“Seems so.” Marcus nodded.

“Indeed,” Boney said.

“Very well,” Horace replied, his eyes narrowing.

Even as everyone voiced their agreement, Jerry hadn’t spoken yet. He kept his eyes glued on the far-off ziggurat, exploring its form for any weakness, and a plan was gradually forming in his mind. A smirk surfaced on his lips.

“Oh no,” Boney said. “Master, whatever idea you have, it’s silly.”

Jerry smiled. “If it works, it isn’t silly.”

“But will it work?”

“Maybe.”

Boney groaned and so did Marcus, both familiar with the ridiculousness of Jerry’s plans. However, Laura and Horace weren’t, so they looked at Jerry with interest.

“What is it, Jerry?” Horace said.

The necromancer summarized his idea. They looked at the ziggurat, then back at Jerry, then at Axehand.

“That’s ridiculous,” Horace said.

“But it could work.”

“It could.” He shook his head. “It’s just… Fine. We can certainly try.”

“Oh, no!” Marcus said.

“I think it has a chance, too,” Laura agreed. “As unreasonable as it sounds, I don’t see why not.”

“Not you too, Laura!”

Axehand grunted in excitement. Jerry smiled widely.

“Very well, then. Let’s do this!”

The airship flew higher, ascending until the ground below could barely be seen, then came to a stop right above the ziggurat.

Everyone stood around Axehand, whose entire skeletal body was red and steaming.

“Are you sure you can do this?” Jerry asked.

The double-skeleton grunted once, more excited than he’d been in a long time. He took a step and plunged into the darkness.

Life is not very interesting when you’re a wild zombie.

One zombie stood atop the ziggurat, not quite knowing why, and waited. It didn’t know what it was waiting for, either. Food. Enemies. Primal instincts it couldn’t decipher.

Suddenly, a sound reached its ears. A soft whistle, turning louder and piercing. Deeper. The zombie looked around, seeing nothing. It looked up, and a big, red, skeletal butt fell right on its head with tremendous force, burying the zombie into the thick glass below and instantly destroying both.

Axehand fell on the ziggurat like a massive brick, and the entire structure imploded with a colossal bang. Shards of glass flew everywhere like razors, slicing skeletons and zombies apart while others were buried under tons of glass.

The sight was mythically apocalyptic.

Half a horde was torn apart or sent flying from the explosion—one skeleton even flew close to the airship—and all that remained was literal tons of broken glass and a furiously confused and butchered horde of undead, running around like headless chickens.

A figure stood up in the center of the mayhem, dusting himself off and releasing a cocky grunt. His form blurred as he dashed, hacking two skeletons in half and decapitating a zombie, destroying them instantly.

As Axehand rampaged on the disoriented horde, arrows rained from the sky, flying fast and true into the throats of undead and felling them by the dozens. Horace had crafted thousands of arrows during his years in the tribe, and he’d brought them all along, unloading quiver after quiver on the poor undead below. Most arrows missed, but some didn’t.

Jerry, who had come up with this plan, was left staring wide-eyed. Such utter destruction was hard to digest!

The airship was descending rapidly, the balloon whistling as the hot air escaped. By the time they landed, not much remained of the horde, and even less of the ziggurat. Hundreds of undead might have been tough to deal with in a frontal assault, but like this, they were massacred.

“Well, that was fast,” Jerry said. “Good job, Axehand.”

The double-skeleton waited where they landed, having already dealt with all stragglers. He grunted in pride, raising an axe into the air, and all of Jerry’s undead cheered for their champion.

Marcus’s irises trembled. “Death knights are scary…”

“I don’t think most death knights can do that,” Laura replied, shivering. “Axehand is scary… Maybe we stand a chance, after all.”

“Look, everyone!” Jerry shouted, having waded through a field of glass to reach a spot in the ziggurat’s base, where a gaping hole lay in the ground. It had been hidden before, but there was nothing to cover it now. “Axehand already found the entrance.”

Marcus and Laura looked at each other again, both shaking their heads. “If there was a time record for raiding this dungeon,” Marcus said, “we’d definitely be on the way to breaking it.”

As per the plan, Marcus, the Billies, and Birb would remain outside and use the airship to distract the enemy reinforcements if they arrived early. He’d been officially named captain, and the Billies were the airship’s steadfast crew.

“Good luck, everyone!” he shouted, banging a hand on his chest. “We will take care of everything here… You just return victorious!”

“We will,” Horace replied, eyes burning. He crossed gazes with Axehand, and the two jumped into the hole.

“But there’s a ladder…” Jerry sighed. “Fine. See you, Marcus. Take care of the Billies!”

“I would never let anything happen to my boys.” Marcus nodded seriously. The Billies became emotional.

Jerry nodded back. He, Laura, Boney, Headless, Boboar, and Foxy entered the opening, following after Axehand and Horace, while the airship took off and awaited news.

69

A RECIPE FOR DISASTER

The Prism Dungeon was a place darker than even the black mists above—not due to supernatural environmental hazards, but a simple lack of illumination.

“Let there be light,” Jerry whispered. A spark flashed in the darkness as a torch burned to life, shedding light in a large radius around him. “There, all set.”

“What is this place?” Laura muttered, looking around. Dusty brick walls surrounded them, forming a corridor which extended into the darkness. Lines of black glass were embedded into the walls, transmitting the fake Prism’s ripples to the surface from somewhere deeper inside.

“Not very hospitable, that’s for sure,” Jerry grumbled. “Who doesn’t illuminate their entrance hall? Are they going to make us travel through darkness the entire time?”

“It’s a dungeon, Jerry.”

“We’re wasting time,” Horace said, already stepping forth. “Let’s go already.”

“Can you see in the dark, Horace?” Laura asked.

“I’m an archer. My eyes are sharp.”

“Sharp enough to see without light?”

He shrugged. Beside him, Axehand grunted in mockery and twisted an axe around his temple, implying that Horace was coo-coo.

Eight of them had entered the dungeon. Jerry, Laura, Horace, Axehand, Boney, Headless, Boboar, and Foxy. The poor skeletal animals hadn’t done much lately, so they were happy to help.

As they advanced through the corridor, Axehand, Horace, and Boboar took the lead, ready to protect everyone.

“Why even build a corridor underground?” Jerry kept jousting at the place’s design. “That’s so much wasted effort.”

“They needed to keep the fake Prism’s location unpredictable,” Laura explained in a whisper. “If we could guess where it was, we wouldn’t have to go through the dungeon; we’d just dig.”

“Hmph.”

The corridor didn’t continue for long before it branched. Two identical paths stretched to the left and right, both equally inviting. Everyone looked at Jerry.

He shook his head. “I can’t tell. The ripples come from the black glass on the wall. Could be anywhere.”

Axehand stepped into the right tunnel. They followed.

However, a few moments later, the tunnel branched off again. This time, there were three paths; right, left, and center. The group paused.

“We’re in a maze,” Laura said.

“Yeah…” Jerry agreed. “Should we try breaking the walls?”

“The whole place might come down on our heads.”

“I see.”

They were at a loss, staring at each other.

“Damn the Wizard Order,” Horace said, clenching his bow. “What a cowardly tactic…”

“This is a great way to buy time.” Laura chewed on her lip. “Arakataron’s army of death knights is probably rushing over as we speak. We need to hurry. Axehand, please go right at every intersection we find.”

Axehand obeyed and the group followed, breaking into a light sprint. They chose right, then right again. They kept going.

At some point, the floor changed. From empty and featureless, bones were now strewn about—from past intruders, possibly. Of course, that begged the question of how they died; was it dehydration after being lost in here for days, or were there guardians in this maze?

“Keep your guard up, everyone,” Laura said. “There might be ambushes.”

The moment she finished speaking, Horace shouted, “Careful!”

A faint sound reached their ears as the bones slid on the ground. They rose into the air, flying at the group at great speed. They carried jagged, sharp edges, and anyone they rammed into would have a terrible time.

Everything happened in a flash. Axehand barely had time to react, turning around on the spot and dashing for Jerry to protect him. He swatted bones left and right, becoming a momentary maelstrom of axes to protect his master. The bones were demolished.

Unfortunately, there were more.

A group of bones headed for Laura, and she barely had time to see the attack coming. She couldn’t defend. Three arrows whistled through the darkness, each meeting a bone accurately in midair and breaking them against the wall. One brushed by Laura’s hair.

Her heart beat faster than a spooked deer’s. With a gulp, she said, “Thank you, Horace…”

“No problem.”

As for the rest of the bones, they had attacked the undead of their party. The skeletons were fine—their bodies were resistant to this type of attack. Only Headless sustained a few injuries, but as a zombie, he was able to shake off an impressive amount of punishment. He took the deep gashes and punctures like a champ.

“Thank you, Axehand.” Jerry smiled, crouching to pick up the torch he’d dropped. “You saved me.”

Axehand grunted in response.

“Speaking of…” Jerry turned toward Headless, inspecting him. “Have you gotten more durable, Headless?”

The zombie pumped his head into the air.

“Hmm, interesting.” Jerry’s soul slipped into Headless’s body, looking it over carefully. “Has my magic saturated your body, making it stronger?”

“Of course,” Laura said, raising a brow. “Undead grow stronger with time. This is a widespread fact… You sure are clueless for a necromancer.”

“It’s not like anyone taught me the ropes. I had to discover everything from scratch.”

“I can tell,” she replied, gazing at Axehand, who grunted. “I can teach you some basic things, if you want, though you’ve probably figured out most by yourself already.”

“You would? Thank you!”

“You’re wasting time again,” Horace growled. “We need to get moving, people.”

“Right. Let’s go, and keep an eye out for bones!”

They proceeded, streaking through the maze at a jogging pace. Corridor after corridor was left behind, and gradually, the ambiance changed. The corridors grew wider, and the branches they met were fewer, as if all paths converged. They were getting somewhere.

They kept jogging all the while, and the exertion reminded Jerry of the time he took a two-month walk through the forest.

Ah, those were the times…

“Wait,” Horace spoke up. Axehand instantly arrived by Jerry’s side, but no danger was in sight.

“What is it?” Laura finally asked.

“Can you hear that?”

Indeed, something could be heard echoing on the walls; a fast-paced scratching sound… and was it growing louder?

“Something’s coming,” Jerry said. “Should we run?”

“We seem to be on the right track,” Laura replied. “This might be the only way to the end.”

“Well then, let’s fight.” Horace grinned, already nocking a trio of arrows. “What say you, Axehand? Ready to cut a bit loose?”

The double-skeleton grunted, taking up position beside the hunter.

“Support us, everyone,” Horace said, bending his knees to enhance his balance. His eyes narrowed as they sharpened.

“Axehand told me to tell you he’d kill double your number of enemies,” Jerry quipped.

Horace’s eyes flashed. “Oh? He’ll barely get a chance to fight.”

Axehand released a challenging grunt, crimson flames licking the inside of his eye sockets.

The scratching sound was audible now—whatever that thing was, it was clearly approaching fast. “Get ready,” Jerry said, already stretching his soul perception into the dark tunnel ahead—and also behind, to protect against ambushes.

The sound intensified abruptly. The enemy had rounded the last corner.

“They’re here!” Horace growled, shooting arrow after arrow into the darkness and eliciting pained howls.

Creatures jumped into the torchlight. They resembled dogs, only larger and significantly meaner. Their eyes were crimson, and their sharp claws scratched against the ground as they ran, but they did not growl or bark, and the unnatural silence was more intimidating than anything else.

Flowing black manes stretched out of their backs, and their open jaws were filled with rot as they lunged forth.

The moment these things entered their field of vision, everyone attacked at once. Jerry reached out with his soul and set to smashing the hounds apart, while Laura created a water screen to disorient and slow them down. Headless drew a glaive—which he’d kept since Edge Town—and began dicing them, while Boboar jumped into the pack and barreled through the hounds like it was nothing. Foxy remained close to Jerry, and Boney stood by Laura’s side.

“How exactly are you going to protect me?” she asked.

“Wait. I thought you were protecting me.”

They stared at each other.

“You’re an undead.”

“You’re a wizard.”

They both turned to Jerry. “Help!”

As for Axehand and Horace, they weren’t kidding when they mentioned outkilling each other.

Horace carried a large, open backpack that he’d stuffed full of quivers—a quiver of quivers, essentially. A rain of arrows was let loose on the poor hounds, piercing them in the eyes or between the bones, felled as quickly as they came.

Axehand took a simpler approach. His axes glinted in the torchlight as he stepped forth, completely unafraid of any hound as he hacked them apart. A circle of death formed around him as he waded straight into their midst, and any hound that managed to bite him got nothing but broken teeth.

“Cheater!” Horace shouted. “You’re blocking my shots!”

Axehand bitch-slapped a hound, sending it flying right into Horace, who drew a machete and slapped the creature into a wall. “That’s playing dirty!”

Axehand grunted in mockery.

The majority of hounds had been stopped by the wall named Axehand and the artillery named Horace, while the few that made it through were taken care of by everyone else. Boboar, sad that he wasn’t needed anymore, retreated to Jerry’s side, ready to protect him.

“Well,” Jerry said over the din of battle, “this is easy.”

Boney instantly groaned, appalled. “No, Master! You can’t say that!”

“Why not?”

“Because—”

He didn’t have time to finish his sentence.

The entire corridor shook as mechanical sounds filled their ears, rusty gears grinding against each other. The floor opened, revealing a long row of dark pits that took up the entire corridor. There were screams, shouts, roars, growls, and even a few hounds yelped as they fell.

Jerry, Boboar, and Foxy fell into one pit.

Laura, Boney, and the nearby Headless fell into another.

Axehand and Horace fell together, along with a horde of hell hounds.

A moment later, the ground closed back up, sparing only the silent, blood-smeared walls and a single terrified hound which had escaped by being at the very end of the pack. It whimpered as it ran away.

As Headless fell, he kept wondering what happened. He bumped into one wall after another, the downward tunnel twisting between slippery turns. It wasn’t helping his already limited mental capacity.

His dancing experience came in handy, as he instinctively righted himself—and not one moment later, he landed, barely maintaining his balance at the sudden halt of his descent. His head was falling separately, so he hadn’t seen the ground.

He chuckled, marveling at himself for sticking the landing. His head was still falling.

Someone fell on him a moment later, dragging them both to the ground. A woman’s yelp let him know it was Laura, and at the very next moment, she crawled away. Headless was glad.

Another person fell on him from above, and Headless’s cut-off throat released a trumpet-like sound as his stomach was compressed. Someone patted him down.

“Oh, it’s you,” came Boney’s voice. “Good job landing below us, Headless.”

Headless felt proud at the compliment. His head landed on Boney’s a moment after, and he was momentarily glad for being immune to pain—that had to hurt.

“Who’s here?” Laura whispered, while Boney scampered away from Headless’s lying body.

“You, me, and Headless so far,” he replied in the darkness. “But let’s see if anyone else will fall.”

Headless realized he was a cushion, then promptly grabbed his head and crawled away. Then he rapidly crawled back when he realized Master might be falling as well.

“Guess it’s just us…” Boney sighed after a while. “What just happened?”

“We fell for a trap, that’s what.” Laura chuckled darkly. “I knew that corridor was suspicious. It must have been a central point for the entire maze… The hound pack finding us right there wasn’t an accident, and neither was the trap. The architect knew we’d have to go through it. I hate to admit it, but that’s smart.”

“It’s also worrying. Those hounds came at the perfect moment. There might be somebody controlling them—someone intelligent.”

They shivered.

Boney continued, “But why not use spike pitfalls instead? Now, they’ve only inconvenienced us.”

“They probably assumed that whoever assaulted this place wouldn’t be weak enough to die to a simple trap. Separating us was more doable. The real killing blow must be hidden in the maze around us. Who knows what monstrosities the architect has prepared.”

“Wait.” Boney looked around. “Are we trapped with enemies?”

“I doubt that. There were so many pitfalls they couldn’t have separate strong enemies waiting below each. If I had to make a guess, everything is connected, and they have a few really strong undead ready to pick us off one by one.”

“You’ve made quite a few logical leaps there.”

“Well, you’re not dead yet, are you?”

“I am, actually.”

“…Okay.”

Headless did not understand much of the conversation, but he wanted to find Master, so he released a low disembodied growl to usher them. Laura jumped—they were still in total darkness.

“No need to shout, big guy,” Boney said. “I know. Master needs us. We must find him as fast as possible… but it should be easy. I mean, we fell in different pits, but they were right next to each other. Shouldn’t Master be here too, Laura?”

“Obviously not. The pitfalls must have each led to a different corridor at different depths, so we can’t easily meet back up.”

“The pitfalls were right next to each other, silly. No matter the depth, how could they lead to different corridors?”

“This corridor and our previous one are perpendicular to each other, Boney… Obviously.”

A cluckle came through the darkness. “Of course. I knew that. So, we need to search for Master.”

“I don’t see any other way. Climbing back up would take too long—and how large could an underground maze possibly be?”

“Okay, then. Thank Desistos I was the one carrying the torches.”

“But do you have a match?”

Silence fell again. Headless was growing annoyed and restless, so he politely released another disembodied roar.

“I know, I know, just give me a moment.” A spark appeared in the darkness, then another torch was lit. Boney, Laura, and Headless stared at each other—well, two of them stared at each other, while the other was holding his head the wrong way. “I had the matches too… obviously.”

“Let’s go. The longer we’re stationary, the greater the chance of anything creeping up on us, and just by ourselves…”

Boney looked around, suddenly realizing that all the strong people were missing. He gulped. “No need to say any more. Let’s run!”

They were in a corridor again, and Boney bolted off in a random direction. Laura and Headless followed, and their torchlight parted the darkness as they explored.

70

THE HUNTERS, THE HUNTED, AND JERRY

“Ugh.” Jerry held his head as he got off the floor. “That hurt.”

He was welcomed by an affectionate oink. Boboar appeared, poking Jerry with his snout to make him feel better. Foxy was on the other side, looking at him with wide, empty eyes.

“Oh, you guys are here too!” Jerry smiled. “That’s nice. But where are we? What happened?”

Both animals looked at him wordlessly.

“You don’t know either, huh… I guess we fell into a trap. The floor opened, and here we are. I wonder where everyone else is.”

The nearby fallen torch illuminated a corridor stretching ahead and behind him, but there was no else to be found. Thankfully, Jerry was a necromancer, and he could use his magic threads to communicate with his undead.

He closed his eyes. A few moments later, he reopened them.

“So, that’s how it is. Everyone is split, and we should try to reconvene as fast as possible. What a hassle. Well, no use thinking too much. Laura said to follow all right paths, so we’ll follow all right paths. What do you think, Foxy? Between the front and back paths, which is righter?”

The fox shrugged.

“Yeah, I think so too.”

Jerry grabbed his torch and began walking. The two animals followed him excitedly.

“This reminds me of the forest,” Jerry mused. “Back then, it was just us three, wasn’t it? And then, we got all these other friends… Being around so many people can be tiring, but I wouldn’t exchange you guys—any of you—for all the taels in the world.”

Boboar oinked, and Foxy purred in happiness. Jerry smiled.

I love my life.

The path branched off occasionally, but they always turned right. Jerry had nothing to consider besides keeping an eye and an ear out for danger, so his mind wandered. From the Akshik tribe’s plight to the Wizard Order, to the Curse, to the Archmage… and to the future.

Well, if he had any.

Probably not—but, if we somehow beat Arakataron and save the Dead Lands, what next? Fight the Wizard Order, maybe? Or continue as a traveling circus?

Hmm… Maybe I should go check out those flying whales. I still want one.

Jerry’s pleasant musings were interrupted when a shadow rounded the corner. He jumped and shone his torch at it. The creature growled.

It was a hound like the ones they’d met before. In fact, its face was covered in blood and guts, so it was probably a member of that specific pack which somehow escaped the Axehand-Horace canine calamity.

As soon as it caught sight of them, the hound stilled. Its red eyes wandered over their forms, and its flowing black mane shuddered. It hesitated.

Jerry was impressed. Can the undead show fear?

He doubted himself—but, as if to confirm his suspicion, the hound turned tail and ran!

“Oh, no you don’t.”

Jerry’s soul force fell on the hell hound like an anvil, shaking its soul and making it collapse to the ground. These creatures weren’t too strong individually; they were the dog equivalent of zombies. They could only pose a threat when in large numbers, like the decimated pack from before.

By themselves, they were rather weak. Subduing one was easy for Jerry.

Maybe it’s because they’ve been stuck here for decades, he mused. My zombies mature with time too, so maybe these guys have reached the point where true sapience reappears. Fascinating!

The hound gazed at Jerry as he approached, suppressing its soul and rendering it immobile.

“Bad doggy,” he scolded it. “You tried to kill us before. That wasn’t nice.”

The hell hound whimpered.

“Anyway, I guess I should kill you. Before that, do you know the way around here?”

It gazed at him with fiery red eyes. Its flowing mane had fully receded, becoming one with its back, and it sat on the ground obediently. It nodded.

With that, Jerry believed this dog didn’t seem too bad. Sure, it had a swamp of festering diseases for a mouth, was covered in the grime of its kin, and it tried to kill them before, but that was no reason to be grumpy, was it?

“You know what?” he said. “If you show us how to meet our friends and escape this place, I will let you go. How does that sound?”

The dog whimpered again. It seemed to like the idea of survival.

“Excellent.” Jerry smiled, then released the pressure—he could reinstate it very quickly if he had to. Plus, Boboar and Foxy had the hound surrounded, ready to tear it apart at the slightest sign of aggression.

“I think I’ll call you Doggo,” Jerry said. “Go on, Doggo. Show us the way to our friends.”

The hound hesitated. Then, slowly, it walked away, turning around every once in a while to make sure they were following.

Jerry felt very proud of himself. I tamed a dog and even found the fastest way out of this place! By Desistos, I must be a genius. Boney will be so proud.

Whistling, he set to following the hell hound—until a deep, primal bellow shook the entire maze.

In another part of the maze, a tunnel was dark and silent.

“Well,” Horace said, “I guess it’s just us.”

A grunt was his only reply.

“Can you light up those lanterns you call eyes? I need a second here.”

An irritated grunt. Two yellow flames appeared in the darkness, illuminating the inside of a reinforced skull.

“Nevermind.” Horace sighed. “Those things can’t illuminate shit. I’ll just do it blindly.”

He reached for his inner sleeve, then easily tore a piece away. Grabbing an arrow from his back, he wrapped the cloth around its tip before extending it forward.

“Spark.”

Axehand ground his axes together, producing an awful grating sound. Sparks flew off it and landed on the cloth before fizzling out. Axehand repeated the process a couple of times before the makeshift torch caught on fire.

“Good,” Horace said. “This won’t last long without oil. We need to hurry.”

Axehand gave an affirmative grunt.

They looked up, where a gaping hole stretched into the darkness. They looked to the right and left, where a corridor stretched out into similarly impenetrable darkness.

“I guess we’ll climb all the way up and try to locate the rest,” Horace concluded. “I’m so glad I have fingers. What do you think, Axehand?”

Axehand grunted in disapproval, then shook his head.

“No?” Horace raised a brow. “What do you recommend?”

Axehand pointed at one side of the corridor.

“Why?” Horace asked.

Axehand tapped his temple.

“Because you’re smart and I’m stupid?”

A shake of his skull—and, after some consideration, a nod.

“Thank you for the compliment. Do you mean that you’re speaking with Jerry? Is he telling you to do this?”

A nod.

“I see. Why, though?” Horace looked up again, squinting to peer through the darkness. “Maybe climbing would be too messy for some people. Hmm. Fine, then. I’ll follow your lead.”

Axehand’s eye-flames turned crimson as he grunted. Right then, a terrifying roar shook the corridor. It was loud, deep, and rumbling—primal—making dust fall off the walls. It sounded close. Horace’s eyes widened as Axehand’s flared.

“What was that?” the hunter said, looking both ways. “It sounded strong.”

Axehand grunted in concern. Horace was quick to mock him, “Are you sca⁠—”

Mid-sentence, he understood. Axehand wasn’t scared for himself. He was scared for his master.

“I see.” Horace chuckled. “That is very noble of you, Axehand, but there is a simple solution. We can just hunt that monster down. I don’t know what or how strong it is, but I know it messed with the wrong hunter and his axe-handed minion.”

Axehand grunted, then pointed at himself, up, then Horace, down.

“In your dreams, skull-face. I’m in charge.”

A grunt of challenge. Horace’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh? You wanna go?”

Another sound reached their ears—this time, it was disembodied, blood-curling screams, like a chorus of madmen at the height of insanity.

“Where is it even coming from?” Horace said with annoyance.

Another round of screams came as nine creatures jumped into the flickering torchlight. They resembled humanoid zombies with a few key differences. First, they ran on all fours; second, they were completely bald and naked; and third, their teeth and nails were abnormally long and sharp, more like a predator’s than a human’s.

Horace clicked his tongue. “Ghouls.”

The ghouls charged like rabid, grotesque animals, and the two men—skeleton and human alike—didn’t take a single step back. “Hey, Axehand,” Horace said, nocking three arrows at the same time, “how about this? Whoever kills more of these trash gets to be the leader.”

Axehand grunted in amusement, readying his axes. The ghouls fell on them.

Poor ghouls.

“KYAAAH!”

Laura screamed at the top of her lungs, running as fast as her legs could carry her.

“Masteeer!” Boney’s jaw clacked in terror as he ran beside her, while Headless was ahead of them both, his head holding on to the back of his shirt’s collar with its teeth, barely glimpsing the way ahead.

A bunch of spiders nibbled on their heels; these weren’t normal spiders either.

They were big, the size of a human foot. And… they had tentacles.

“Why the hell did I come down here!” Boney screamed.

“I’m wondering the same thing!” Laura shouted.

“AAARGH!” Headless roared, unable to speak. In the process of doing so, his head stopped biting onto his collar and was flung back—thankfully, Laura was there to catch it.

“EEK!” she shouted. “Take it away, take it away!”

She tossed it to Boney, who almost dropped it before turning it to look ahead.

“Headless, you buffoon. You almost lost your head!”

“AAARGH!” the head screamed again, while its lower half kept paving the way.

After deciding to explore, the three of them followed the right path. The corridors had adopted a steady downward slope. Soon, they’d reached an area filled with cracks on the walls, where even the ever-present black glass was tainted and broken in places.

Moreover, the farther they went, the larger the cracks became.

“This can’t be right,” they’d agreed.

“If we go any deeper and the cracks become proper crevices, there might even be tentacle monsters,” Laura said.

“Should we turn around?”

“We should.”

When they turned, there were creatures on the floor below them—large spiders, pitch-black, and making odd belching sounds; in fact, their only similarity to spiders was the general shape, as they had tentacles in place of legs.

These weren’t proper tentacle monsters, but rather their infantile forms. They’d been watching. The moment Boney, Laura, and Headless saw them, the hunt had begun, pushing them ever deeper into the tunnels.

“This isn’t working!” Laura shouted amidst her panting. “At this rate, we’re only heading to even worse things. We must do something, now!”

“Just magic them away!”

“I can’t control nearly enough water!”

“Ugh, could you be any more useless?”

“You can’t even do anything, you⁠—”

Laura and Boney fell on Headless’s back, stopping dead in their tracks. They instantly panicked even further. “Oh, Gods!”

A gaping chasm lay ahead of them. If Headless hadn’t stopped them, they would have fallen right in. How he’d noticed it with his head in Boney’s hands was a mystery.

The apex of a sharp, ninety-degree right turn had collapsed into a large dark hole. In fact, the collapsed corner seemed to only be a small part of the chasm, which extended far into the rock. Who knew what terrors lurked in the darkness…

On the bright side, avoiding the chasm was easy if you noticed it; to them, it was only a broken-off corner they could easily jump over. That’s what they did, putting the new horrors aside to deal with the old ones.

“Laura, water!” Boney shouted. “This is our chance!”

“I know!”

The stopper of her flask popped off, letting a steady stream of water rush out and surround the opening.

The spiders’ tentacles didn’t have suckers. They were slimy, slippery things, and the spiders basically glided on them. As soon as they reached the turn and the water before it, they were unable to stop, and they slid directly into the hole.

Only one of them managed to jump, and Headless bravely squashed it under his finely made boot with a wet, sloshy sound.

“Quick,” Boney said, “let’s run before they⁠—”

A series of loud slurping sounds interrupted them. Headless waved his torch at the chasm, discovering that its insides—it was a hole no more than ten feet at its deepest—were covered in cracks and crevices, and a flood of tentacles had shot out to grasp whatever fell inside.

The spiders panicked, trying to climb up in vain, but they were slow. The tentacles wrapped around them, fighting over each spider, and the poor creatures were dragged inside the crevices like candies. A merciless cracking signified each spider’s disappearance, followed by a loud slurping sound.

Boney and Laura were gaping, while Headless’s head was turned the wrong way.

“Holy… There must be dozens of them,” Laura whispered, her heart beating fast. “I⁠—”

“They would tear us limb from limb—bone to bone…” Boney added his own whisper. A loud gasp came from Headless, who’d snatched his head back and taken a look, and then the slurping sounds came to a stop, followed by slimy splashes as the tentacles kept looking for food.

Their search angled upward, approaching the edge of the chasm.

Boney and Laura looked at each other. “Oh no,” they said at the same time, then bolted away.

71

PREPARE FOR TROUBLE, AND MAKE IT DOUBLE

The world is strikingly magnificent and diverse beyond belief. I have witnessed winged tigers and giant lizards, tiny people and large ones, and an entire civilization under the water. I have even seen flying whales—they are not a myth, after all!

What a nice world to live in.

- From the Atlas of Homerus, page 273

In a dark, crack-filled corridor deep beneath the earth, everything was quiet. Two hands popped out from behind a corner—one held a head in its palm, and the other a torch.

“Is it safe?” came a hushed whisper. Headless gave a thumbs-up. “Oh, thank Hydra.”

Headless, Laura, and Boney slowly came into view, each walking carefully behind the other. They tiptoed across the corridor, sneaking terrified glances at every crack in the wall, and, occasionally, behind them.

After escaping the group of tentacled spiders, the three of them advanced with extreme caution. Unfortunately, they’d lost their way in all the running before, and they could not retrace their steps. They were stuck in a dark maze filled with tentacle monsters, and they stuck out like sore thumbs because they carried a torch.

Thankfully, the tentacle monsters had no eyes. They hunted by sound—probably.

“Are you sure, though?” Boney whispered. “Spiders don’t have ears.”

“Neither do you. Hush!”

The group reached the next corner, sending Headless to peek again. That’s how they advanced.

Their progress was painfully slow. Every shadow hid a spider, every crack a tentacle. Twice, they jumped because something creaked under Headless’s boot. Once, Boney got scared of his own shadow.

These three were not having a good time in the dungeon.

At least, they were making progress. By luck or coincidence, their steps were leading them upward again, and the walls were in gradually better condition. However, that did not mean the danger was over, and the trio got tenser with every moment—after all, the spiders had attacked them near the entrance of the tentacle area.

They even kept their breathing low, trying to be as unnoticeable as possible. All three were praying, each to their own God—Laura prayed to Hydra, Boney to Desistos, and Headless to Jerry, who had, by the way, informed them that he was perfectly safe and having a lot of fun.

As the trio continued their ascent, only a faint, intermittent clacking sound accompanied them.

“Can you stop that?” Laura whispered in irritation, glaring at Boney’s trembling jaw.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered back, “it happens when I’m nervous.”

“Well, make it stop or you’ll be dead too.”

“But I already am.”

Her glare turned to his eye sockets, and she deflated when she remembered they were empty.

Suddenly, Headless froze. Behind him, the other two froze as well, looking around in panic before they noticed the large crack on the wall a bit farther down the path. Most cracks were only wide enough to fit spiders, but this particular one was so large a person could squeeze through—and a tentacle had just slithered out of it.

This was no spider. This was a proper, grown tentacle monster, able to slurp them down its mysterious throat.

The tentacle moved in absolute silence, patting and caressing the ground as if searching for something. The whispers must have alerted it, but nobody was in the mood to blame anyone right now.

From up close, the tentacle was even more repulsing than from afar. It was slimy, slick and black, as dark as its shadow in the torchlight. Its underside was covered in suckers, with tiny hairs growing all over it. Though unlike the tentacle’s smoothness, its movements were spasmodic and lacked any harmony whatsoever, invoking a jarring, disturbing feeling in everyone’s mind. The tentacle’s appalling impression was only eclipsed by the sheer horror it grew out of.

The trio didn’t dare move a muscle. They could only watch as the tentacle’s exploration range widened, approaching them as it scoured the ground. They were beginning to panic. They didn’t want to run, as that could cause a chain reaction and everything would be chasing them again, but it was preferable to getting devoured.

They were ready to bolt.

The tentacle approached, and low, slurping noises escaped the darkness that hid its base. Headless was at the front, and his eyes kept twitching as the tentacle neared him. Three steps, two, one…

The tentacle was inches away from Headless’s right boot, and the zombie was about to stab it with his glaive.

Suddenly, the tentacle shuddered, as if reaching its maximum length. A roundish shape barely left the darkness of the crack, recoiling instantly as if afraid of the open air. The tentacle receded back into the hole, and a few more slurping sounds followed as the monster settled itself and fell back asleep.

Boney’s panic receded too, but the fear remained. His heart—if he had one—would be fluttering, beating faster than a scared rabbit’s. His entire body would be drenched in sweat, his eyes would be widened to the extreme. He felt trapped in these horror-filled corridors, deep beneath the earth, and panic was constantly threatening to take ahold of him.

He became hyper-aware of every dark nook and cranny. He could see the back of Laura’s hair stuck to her head by the cold sweat, and he could hear Headless’s trembling boots. It even occurred to him that, if the tentacle monsters had no eyes, they could point their torch at the crack and see its form… but he instantly discarded the idea. He was already scared enough.

Then, Boney realized they should get moving. He didn’t dare poke Laura, who was in front of him, fearing she would be spooked and shout. He couldn’t poke Headless either, so he simply waited.

Eventually, Headless kept going. They had to get past the tentacle monster’s crack to reach the end of the corridor, doing their best to stick to the far wall. They made it through. Boney had to resist the urge to exhale deeply in relief, and Laura could barely hold it in until the next corner, apparently.

She was shivering, and, for a moment, Boney felt bad for her. He didn’t know many things about Laura, besides her leaving the Wizard Order, but she was a wizard who’d clearly led a comfortable life before that.

Being here must be hard on her. Why does she persist? he wondered, observing her slim, shaky back.

Headless rounded the corner, saw something, and ceased moving altogether. Boney and Laura saw it a second later.

The torchlight had just fallen on a humanoid form. It was facing the other way, and it wore a ruined brown robe. It held a bucket in one hand and a piece of rotten meat in the other, placing it on the ground in front of a large crack on the wall. On closer inspection, the form didn’t have arms; it had tentacles.

As the trio watched, the creature turned around, revealing a visage straight out of their darkest nightmares. The front of its robe was open, showing a body made of small entwined tentacles that squirmed and spasmed as if possessed by a thousand different minds. They constantly moved and shifted, yet somehow, the being maintained its form.

Its most terrifying feature was undoubtedly its head. Its neck was made up of three fat, hairy tentacles, leading to the only piece of its body that didn’t constantly squirm—a face made of innumerable tiny tentacles and a few larger ones, shifting to reveal a gaping, toothless, slick maw.

In place of eyes, the thing had two larger tentacles that constantly dragged themselves around its face. It was by far the most grotesque thing that Boney had ever seen. He gagged.

The thing noticed them. It dropped its bucket with a loud clang that shattered the silence, and its mouth opened wider as it made a sucking sound. It slithered toward them.

Boney, Laura, and Headless screamed at the same time. Then, they ran faster than ever before, dodged the surprised tentacle from the crack behind them, and kept running.

A pleasant whistle brightened up the maze. Boboar and Foxy walked calmly, enjoying their Master’s happiness as they toured the empty corridors. They hadn’t encountered a single problem after that hound, which turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

Said hound was currently walking between the two animals, and on its back… was Jerry!

“I’m so glad we found you, Doggo,” he said with a smile, his legs hanging on either side of the hell hound. “I’ve always wanted a mount! Oh, what did you say? A horse? Hmm, yes, that could work as well, but maybe later. Let’s find our friends first. With how safe this place is, I’m sure they’re doing just fine!”

Jerry whistled and enjoyed himself as they traveled. He was with Boboar and Foxy, his two oldest companions, and they’d even made a new, rideable friend. Really, what was there not to like?

A tremendous bellow shook the corridor.

“Again?” Jerry complained, looking around. “Come on, it’s the third time already. You’re scary, we get it, but do you need to be annoying too?”

Whatever was roaring didn’t reply. Maybe that was a good thing. He had a suspicion that, if they met, it would tear him apart. He also suspected the exit should be up, not down, and the hell hound had been guiding them lower this entire time.

“Are you sure this is the right direction, Doggo?” he asked it again. “I mean, shouldn’t we be going the exact opposite way?”

The hell hound below him whimpered, nodding emphatically.

“Well, if you say so.” Jerry shrugged as he leaned backward. “You live here, after all. You know best.”

However, Jerry’s instinct wasn’t really satisfied. Something wasn’t right, he could feel that, but what? Could Doggo have gotten lost?

Wait! Jerry had an epiphany. It couldn’t be lying, could it?

“Doggo…” he said, “you aren’t leading us to a trap, are you?”

Just as he said that, light appeared at the end of the tunnel—literally. “Oh!” Jerry exclaimed. “It’s the exit! I’m sorry for doubting you, Doggo; I knew you were a real friend!”

Doggo barked in disbelief.

They approached the door-like opening and stepped through, revealing a small room that was decidedly not the exit. Torches lined the space, while a heavy bookcase rested against the far wall, flanked by a book-filled, study desk and what resembled a big pot.

However, Jerry’s attention was drawn to the center of the small room, where a large eye hovered in midair and stared at him. Specifically, it was a gray ball with only a large eye at the front and a few small tentacles around it, and it flew without a care for mundane things like gravity. It also wore a small cloak around its back. The eye looked deeply at him, clearly possessing intelligence.

A terrific presence rammed into Jerry’s mind. Whatever this thing was, its soul was far stronger than a normal human’s. It assaulted him, and the eye seemed surprised when Jerry stood his ground.

There was no further soul attack or tentacle heading his way, even though Boboar and Foxy hurried to guard him. Instead, a cultured voice reached his mind, speaking with the gravitas and elegance of a kind, old professor.

Hello, it said, filled with genuine curiosity. I apologize for my rude welcoming. I was just surprised, you see. My name is Akolateronim, not to be confused with Archmage Arakataron. If I may ask… who are you?

72

POOR AKOLATERONIM

Akolateronim belonged to a species known as Watchers; ruthless, calculating, and fiercely intelligent floating eyeballs.

It was also the architect of the Prism Dungeon, as well as its caretaker. The Guardian, the tentacle monsters and their leader, the hell hounds… Everything here was under Akolateronim’s authority, barring the floating bones—and the intruders.

Akolateronim had not expected visitors. There wasn’t much it could do against them, either. Most of the defenses were arranged beforehand, the Guardian was uncontrollable, and the tentacle leader had left its lair just before the intruders appeared. What shitty luck.

The only resource at Akolateronim’s disposal had been the hell hound pack, which had already gotten butchered. After that, it had gone blind—and terrified. It hoped the intruders wouldn’t find it, allowing it to claim inability and slip through the cracks of its soul oath. Unfortunately, that had not come to pass. Now, Akolateronim had to stop this human necromancer… or die trying.

Unfortunately, the human had easily shaken off Akolateronim’s soul attack, but it possessed other means as well.

Hello, it said, lightly tapping into the human’s soul. It filled its voice with curiosity, hoping to invoke a positive response—according to its books, humans were vulnerable to sincerity. I apologize for my rude welcoming. I was just surprised, you see. My name is Akolateronim, not to be confused with Archmage Arakataron. If I may ask… who are you?

The human stared at it, allowing Akolateronim’s sharp mind to infer more information.

First, the human rode a hell hound; therefore, said hound must be under his complete control, despite the many seals Akolateronim had placed on its mind. Commanding it to attack could backfire.

Second, he looked mostly unkempt, what with his short, bushy beard and raggedy clothes. Only his shoes were well-maintained—probably the gift of a loved one. Therefore, the human placed great importance on familial ties.

Third, he seemed relaxed, gazing at Akolateronim like it was harmless. That spoke of great confidence, meaning great power.

But, fourth… he was young, maybe in his late twenties, and his apparent interest in Akolateronim indicated he’d never met a Watcher before. If Akolateronim wasn’t a master of facial expressions, his eye would have narrowed. He smelled blood in the air.

Naivete. A Watcher’s best friend.

“I’m Jerry,” the necromancer replied. “What are you? And why is your name so long?”

I don’t know, my good sir, Akolateronim said. If I may, why is yours so short?

Humans were also vulnerable to playful banter. It lowered their guard tremendously—and, indeed, the human cracked a smile. What a fool.

“Fair enough. But really, what are you? You look fun.”

I am a Watcher. We are death spirits, mostly born in the present Dead Lands, and we love books! Akolateronim would have cringed if it could. Did it go too far? The human didn’t seem to mind. It kept going. Have you never seen one of us?

“Seen? I didn’t even know you existed!” The human laughed. “How can you fly?”

How can whales?

“I have no idea!”

Well, neither do I. Akolateronim vibrated its soul to resemble laughter. I would love to chat with you at length, my new friend. Staying in a maze for fifty years can be lonely, you see… but time flies. If I may ask, do you belong to the group that is currently invading this place?

“I do.” The human nodded. “We will just destroy the fake Prism and be on our way. It’s fine, right?”

Of course! It’s not like the entire dungeon was built to protect it.

“Perfect!”

This time, Akolateronim’s eye really did narrow. Did he not understand the irony? it wondered. Or is he playing me? No, there’s no way he didn’t get it. This guy is a player.

If I may, he asked again, why exactly are you trying to destroy the Prism?

“To lift the Curse, of course.” Jerry looked at Akolateronim as if it was an idiot, making its pride balloon more than it thought possible. It was a genius. Suddenly, it despised this human—even if it didn’t show it.

Lift the Curse! it exclaimed mentally. Why on earth would you want to do that?

“What?” Now, it was the human’s turn to be stumped. “Because it’s bad.”

There’s nothing bad about the Curse! Akolateronim acted stunned. It’s a noble attempt to bring balance. You, as a necromancer, should understand this better than anyone. With so much life energy in the world, death energy needs a home as well.

“I… but the people… and necromancers…” Jerry cupped his chin. Clearly, he was struggling to think—but how could Akolateronim, the one with all the knowledge and higher intelligence, lose in his own game?

I understand what you’re worried about, it replied calmly. The poor people of the Dead Lands who never chose to become death spirits. Maybe the people and animals that became undead, too. But, my friend, being a death spirit is a good thing… They’re immortal! They don’t need to eat, drink, sleep, or breathe! Sure, the sky may be a bit overcast, but that’s hardly a high price to pay for immortality, is it?

“But they didn’t seem happy…”

When were humans ever happy? Everyone has their own problems. Were they unhappy due to being death spirits, or was it just a coincidence?

Akolateronim was shooting blindly now, but it had to feign confidence. Unsurprisingly, it hit the mark. Typical humans.

“I guess so…” Jerry replied. “But I mean… So many people and animals died to the Curse. It caused so much pain. The Red Week, the Wall of the Damned… Not to mention that it corrupts the world, making the Dead Lands, well, dead.”

Death energy is not evil, Jerry, my friend. Akolateronim’s mental voice softened. You know that, I’m sure. All that matters is how you use it. As for the creatures which originally died to the Curse… I was there. It was a heavy price to pay, yes, and I can promise you that the Archmages of the Wizard Order cried as they unleashed the Curse, but they still did it. And because they, our venerable forefathers, took that burden upon themselves, we can enjoy the benefits.

The Dead Lands need to exist, Jerry. It is a part of the world, and we shouldn’t tear it apart just because we find it ugly. Now that the hard times of the Curse are past, there really isn’t much harm in keeping it around, is there? At most, a stray horde bashes the Wall every now and then, but so what? More people die to boars each year than soldiers on the Wall. It’s a worthy sacrifice for such beauty, diversity, and balance.

The human seemed conflicted, making Akolateronim’s heart burn with morbid satisfaction. It always knew it was intelligent; forcing its will on an inferior being felt wonderful.

“But, why do we need this balance?” Jerry finally asked.

Because a world without balance is a soup without water. Akolateronim made its voice as kind as possible. It was time to push further. I’m sure your allies have told you otherwise, and you never thought too deeply about things… but, now that you have, don’t you think that maybe they were wrong? I’m not implying they lied to use you, I’m just saying that maybe they’re acting blindly. Intelligence is the end of beauty, Jerry. Right?

“I don’t really think so,” Jerry said. “I mean, all of them are pretty smart—smarter than me. Laura, Marcus, Horace, even Boney. If they say the Curse is bad, then it has to be, I think.”

But don’t you see that’s a slightly naive way to think? Akolateronim insisted. Everybody acts with their own interests in mind, and that doesn’t change if they claim to be your friends. Think about it; would they have some sort of personal benefit if the Curse was broken?

Jerry raised a few fingers, then took them down one by one, thinking. “I guess so, but I don’t think they would lie to me.”

People are fickle. Akolateronim moved from side to side, imitating a human shaking their head. Betrayal is a hard pill to swallow, Jerry… Trust me, I know it first-hand. You can picture it too if you want. Imagine how you would feel if all those allies revealed they’d just been using you all along. You are a good person, I can tell, and you’re happy to live a simple life, but your personality type is what manipulators love to target. Imagine if you risked your life to help them, only to realize you were a tool all along…

“How could that happen? They’re my friends.”

Friends are often the best liars…

“But then they wouldn’t be friends, would they?”‘

The human’s eyes were full of sincerity, and Akolateronim’s thoughts were equally full of confusion.

I mean to say that maybe they’re pretending.

“But they aren’t! I would know, since they’re my friends. If they were lying and I didn’t know, they wouldn’t be my friends, but they are! Therefore, they’re not lying. See?” The human smiled widely, and Akolateronim’s thoughts came to a screeching halt.

You do realize that makes no sense, it couldn’t help saying.

“Of course it does; I just explained it.”

But it—You didn’t! Your reasoning was a circle!

“What’s wrong with circles? I mean, I didn’t know thoughts could be circles, but it doesn’t sound that bad; just complicated. I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually.”

Akolateronim was annoyed now. This human was openly mocking its superior intelligence. Was he grumpy at being the inferior one? It chose to ignore the provocation—stupidity deserved some leeway.

I understand your disgruntlement, my friend, it replied graciously. If you don’t want to discuss it, you don’t have to. Just keep the thought in your heart of hearts.

“Sure.”

However, as for the Prism… Akolateronim pretended to hesitate. You can do whatever you want, of course, but I strongly advise you to reconsider. If you or your allies do not fully understand the significance of what you’re about to do, maybe you should give it some time. Or, maybe, you could tell them to come here, and we can all have a nice, civil discussion where I tell you everything you need to know.

Of course, if that were to happen, the Guardian would come too, and these stupid invaders would all die.

As if on cue, another bellow rocked the entire maze, rekindling Akolateronim’s hopes… Wait, it thought, did the Guardian sound hurt? No, that’s impossible. I’m influenced by my fear.

Akolateronim would obey its soul oath if it had to, but it did not want to die.

“I don’t think we can take some time…” the necromancer said. “I mean, we’re kind of in a rush here.”

That’s too great a risk!

“Yeah… But, to be honest, I kind of feel like you’re full of shit.” The human was perfectly calm as he said this, as if just stating a fact. Akolateronim was furious but held it in.

I don’t know what I did to insult you. I am only speaking the truth… it said, pretending to be hurt. My arguments are sound, too! Why do you not believe me?

“Yeah, what you said made sense… but it sounded wrong, you know?”

That is not an argument.

“So?”

This is not how discussions are made! You need logical arguments to make decisions, not because something felt wrong! You butcher the concept of debating!

“But it really did feel wrong. You’re obviously very smart, but eh.”

That’s now how you’re supposed to think! Things don’t work like that! You must act based on reason, not baseless feelings!

“I don’t want to.”

Akolateronim was incensed. It felt like slamming its eye against a brick wall.

That’s ridiculous! it threw out in a final attempt to make any progress at all. I said everything perfectly! You have no counterarguments! You must be convinced!

“I do what I want.”

The human seemed slightly annoyed now, which was incomprehensible to Akolateronim as he was the one being ridiculous. Perhaps it should backtrack and try a softer approach—only, speaking with this nonsensical human any longer would be a fate worse than death. He was too stupid to be reasoned with. Speaking with him caused Akolateronim physical pain!

Very well, it said. Negotiations have broken down. Prepare to die.

73

SOUL WAR

Axehand and Horace stepped over a pile of newly created corpses and went on their way.

“I’m worried,” Horace said. “If everyone is facing undead at these quantities, they might struggle a bit.”

Axehand grunted in agreement. He shared the same worry—would Master make it? At the next moment, his eye-flames flared crimson. If Jerry wanted to be his Master, he had to be capable of at least this much.

The two of them had been traveling for a while now, crossing corridor after corridor as they ventured deeper into the maze. Undead came at them in hordes, but that was no problem; the duo quickly took care of everything.

A new bellow shook the corridor, much louder than ever before.

“Hmm,” Horace muttered. “We must be getting close.”

Axehand grunted in excitement.

Suddenly, as if agitated by the roar, a black tentacle shot out of a large crack in the wall. It wrapped around Axehand’s arm before a second tentacle flew out, wrapping around his torso. Axehand looked on curiously.

“Oh, a tentacle monster.” Horace nodded, crossing his arms. “Can you let it eat you, please?”

The tentacles went taut, struggling to pull Axehand into the wall. He just stood there, watching with disinterest. A grunt later, he pulled back.

The tentacle monster was ripped out of its crack and into the corridor, where the force of Axehand’s pull smashed it into the opposite wall and killed it on the spot. It wasn’t anything to write home about; a slug-like, pitch-black thing half the size of a person, with four tentacles growing out of its underbelly and a slick hole for a mouth. Its back was covered in broken suckers, blood, and stone, as Axehand had just ripped it off the wall.

“These creatures are disgusting,” Horace said. “At least they’re weak.”

Axehand grunted in agreement. They stepped past the slug, careful not to touch it, and went on their way. They had a monster to hunt.

Time passed. The bellows grew louder and more frequent. The tunnels were empty. The sound of stomps echoed through the walls, and rough breathing came from behind the corner.

“Hoho,” Horace said with a predator’s smile. “We got it.”

Axehand grunted in excitement, grinding his axes against each other. Reaching for his waist, he grabbed the steel flask and took a big gulp of wine.

A nightmare rounded the corner.

It was a creature towering over them, its horns almost scratching the ten-foot-tall ceiling. It had the head of a bull and the body of a hairy man, but the taut musculature which bulged through its skin spoke of tremendous strength. Its waist was thick, and yet, there was little fat to be found, as most of its mass was made of muscle. Only a dirty loincloth covered its privates.

In its hands, the minotaur held a large battleaxe taller and heavier than most grown men, and steam escaped its nostrils as a pair of red eyes stared them down.

“That’s intimidating.” Horace nodded in approval. “Look, Axehand; it has an axe. Maybe you’re cousins.”

Axehand grunted as he stepped forth, his competitive spirit rising. The minotaur did have an axe; he would show it who the superior lumberjack was.

The jacked-up, nine-foot-tall behemoth released a tremendous bellow as it charged. Its hooves stomped against the floor, its battleaxe screaming through the air. Axehand jumped to meet it, and axe met axe in a collision that shook the maze.

Axehand’s momentum was halted, but so was the minotaur’s. The two were evenly matched.

“Heh.” Horace chuckled. “Can’t you even handle one lousy monstrosity?”

Axehand glared over his shoulder, then charged the minotaur again. The two exchanged a flurry of blows, and the minotaur’s eyes went from rage to shock as this tiny enemy matched it. With another bellow, it went berserk, hacking and slashing without care for its safety.

Axehand weaved through the blows, easily outmaneuvering the heavy weapon. The ground and walls were cleaved repeatedly, large gashes appearing in the stone, but Axehand was safe as he dived into his opponent’s guard. The tip of his right axe met the flat of the greataxe’s blade, altering its trajectory as Axehand unleashed a left uppercut on the beast, drawing a thick line through its belly.

Black blood flowed out, but the minotaur remained standing, and it seemed even madder than before. It was incensed; as the Guardian of this maze, it was supposed to maul intruders, not the opposite! They were supposed to run and scream!

It roared in pain and fury, ready to fight to the death.

Axehand grunted in satisfaction. This fight was fun—he didn’t want it to finish quickly.

Whistling sounds reached his ears as two arrows cut through the air, embedding themselves in both eyes of the minotaur. Axehand glared at Horace; and the massive beast, with a final, soulless bellow, collapsed to the floor, shaking it by sheer weight.

“What?” Horace said. “You were clearly winning. We don’t have time to waste on small fries.”

Axehand released another annoyed grunt as he swung an axe through the air, shaking off the black blood. He pointed ahead.

“Yes, let’s go. We should be getting close.” The two left yet another corpse behind them as they searched for their companions.

Jerry’s and Akolateronim’s souls clashed in a display of mental fireworks. Beside them, the hell hound followed Akolateronim’s commands and attacked Jerry. Boboar and Foxy faced it. Two battles erupted at the same time, but Jerry could only see one.

The world faded away as only he and Akolateronim remained.

Jerry had fought like this before. He’d once challenged Maccain, a Herald of the Wizard Order, only to be obliterated. Akolateronim wasn’t nearly as strong, fortunately—Jerry could fight.

Two streams of soul energy left their bodies and crashed into each other like raging rivers. They flowed around and into each other, aiming at weak spots to prove their supremacy. The sight resembled two armies fighting, while Jerry and Akolateronim were the generals.

Jerry’s soul was free and wild, slipping out of Akolateronim’s grasp to attack wherever it wanted. Akolateronim’s soul was orderly and disciplined, striking hard and accurately but in predictable, rigid patterns.

The two souls wrestled in midair, invoking colorful fireworks visible to the naked eye. They were evenly matched in raw power; Akolateronim’s efficiency was met with Jerry’s unpredictability and superior raw power, and the two were embroiled in a battle whose victor was unclear.

Jerry was excited. This kind of battle was like an art, holding unfathomable depths that he couldn’t wait to explore. Right now, he was like a fumbling infant, but a fumbling infant with a strong soul that got progressively better!

He was enjoying himself. Fighting like this demanded the entirety of his concentration, making everything else fall out of scope. He was the battle, and boiling blood ran down his veins as ecstasy took him over. His soul unleashed its full power, and the difference was palpable.

I’m this strong! Jerry wondered, watching how his soul coiled around Akolateronim’s like a dragon. He was performing at his very peak and kept surprising himself with his speed, reflexes, and mental resilience.

I’m a necromancer! he thought proudly.

However, soul battles weren’t merely throwing one’s soul into the fray until somebody won. A person’s soul was the core of their being, their most intimate shelter. As the two souls waged war, they unavoidably touched each other. Thoughts and feelings were transmitted, violently invading Jerry’s psyche.

He felt arrogance, anger, and haughtiness. A sense of suffocating, repulsive order. Fear and hatred raged at being forced to fight, and how Akolateronim blamed Jerry for all this.

However, Jerry’s thoughts flowed into Akolateronim’s soul as well, and the Watcher recoiled as Jerry’s carefree attitude violated its understanding of the world.

You are absurd! it screamed into Jerry’s soul. Travesty, humiliation, abomination. DIE!

No, I don’t think I will, Jerry replied, pushing harder. His understanding of soul battle increased by the moment. So did Akolateronim’s, in fact, but Jerry was faster to learn. His soul gained the upper hand as the Watcher stumbled, and the scales of battle tilted. No! Akolateronim raved, but it was already failing, and defeat would come inevitably.

But Akolateronim had other means as well.

Suddenly, its soul opened up completely, forfeiting the battle, and Jerry was sucked in. To defeat Akolateronim, he just had to keep pushing… but would it be that easy? As he invaded his opponent’s soul, his world was devoured by illusions.

He saw himself atop a tall cliff, watching the dry rock beneath. Akolateronim flowed beside him. “What do you think?” it said, a mouth appearing below its eye. “Do you have the courage to advance? Maybe you should stop here.”

Jerry knew he had to jump if he wanted to reach Akolateronim’s soul, but he was afraid. Jumping from a cliff… Who would do that?

“Courage? Of course I have it,” he replied, and then he jumped.

The air whistled in his ears, and his hair flew. As he reached the ground, Jerry thought, whoops—and the scenery changed.

Jerry now sat at a table filled with delicacies, the smell sweet enough to make his stomach growl. Akolateronim sat opposite him.

“You can have all these. Just let me go,” it pleaded.

“No.”

Why would Jerry want this food? Marcus was an excellent cook, anyway.

He swiped all plates off the table and the illusion shattered, replaced by a natural warm spring. Jerry was in there, buck-naked and surrounded by stunning women. Their eyes were large and sincere, and their smiles were filled with love. Akolateronim was floating beside him, a folded white towel placed on its head.

“This is nice…” it said with a sigh.

“Are you an idiot?” Jerry said, laughing. “I don’t need women or food.”

“I don’t understand! What do you need, then?”

“Soft chairs, maybe. And shoes. And a world where everyone is happy.”

Akolateronim laughed like a human. “Consider it done!”

Jerry found himself on a chair whose softness eclipsed anything he’d ever experienced. Euphoria spread from his buttocks to his entire body, and looking down, Jerry saw a pair of red moccasins.

“Woah, those are nice!” he said, wiggling his toes. “You must be very smart. Nobody else took me seriously.”

Floating in a chair opposite him, Akolateronim smiled. “Of course I am.”

Jerry smiled back, then spread his arms and tore the illusion apart. He was back in the maze, and Akolateronim’s eye was widened to the extreme as Jerry’s soul had wrapped around its own.

We became friends! it shouted in his mind. I even had a towel on my head—that was funny! You can’t kill me!

Jerry smiled. “I’m a good guy.” Akolateronim was filled with joy, but Jerry’s next words sank him into the depths of despair, “But I’m not an idiot.”

No! I did everything right! This is unfair! NO!

A mad scream was the last thing to escape Akolateronim’s soul before it was sliced to bits; an advanced application of Jerry’s Soul Severing.

The floating eye collapsed to the ground and Jerry wiped his hands, looking around. “Well, that was fun. Good job, guys.”

Boboar and Foxy gazed at their master, standing over the traitorous hell hound’s body. Jerry approached it.

“You weren’t a good boy, after all…” He sighed, shaking his head. “It’s okay. Thank you for everything so far, Doggo. When I find a proper dog in the future, I will name it after you. Sleep well.”

He then rose to inspect the room. “We won, but where are we?”

Boboar oinked.

“That’s right, big guy. Doggo did not lead us to the exit. Let’s try to find it ourselves, shall we?”

Boboar oinked again, while Foxy yipped.

Jerry turned around to leave… and paused.

“Wait a moment…” He paced to the library, squinting at the various titles. “Atlas… Bestiary… History… Art of War… Wow, so much useless stuff. Oh, here it is!”

He excitedly pulled a book off the shelf, gazing at it with wonder. Boboar and Foxy looked over curiously.

“Look, guys!” Jerry pushed the book at their noses as if they could read. “This book is called Introduction to Necromancy! It’s exactly what I needed!”

The two skeletal animals didn’t understand, but if Jerry was happy, they were happy too. Therefore, with whistling on his lips and a new book under his armpit, Jerry set back to wandering. The exit had to be nearby.

74

THE TENTACLE MASTER

“NOOO—”

A tentacle slapped the wall over Boney’s head.

“KYAAH!”

Another slapped Laura’s calf, almost making her trip. Headless roared in confusion. The terrifying creature behind them continued its silent pursuit.

They had been running for some time now. The tentacle person wasn’t able to close the distance, but their mad shouts had awakened every single monster in the vicinity, and tentacles kept shooting out of cracks to catch them. Thankfully, these creatures were ambush predators. They generally took their time to land one devastating blow. Due to having no eyesight, they struggled to catch fleeing prey, meaning the trio were, somehow, still alive—as alive as they could be, anyway.

At least, the tentacle spiders, the younger version of the monsters, feared the commotion and didn’t dare peek outside their holes. Only one did, and was then slapped by a flailing tentacle that shot it straight onto Laura. She lost her mind, and the little creature, equally terrified, started running around her body in blind panic.

It eventually hid inside the higher back of her dress.

“GET IT OFF ME!” Laura cried out, trying to reach her back. Headless kept slapping her, trying to catch the spider, but it constantly wiggled away. “It’s disgusting!”

“It’s harmless!” Boney shouted. “Focus on staying alive!”

“Help me, Boney!”

“Like hell! Just run!”

“Nooo…” she shrieked again.

Headless, who was faster than Laura, had finally had enough. He jammed his hand into her dress from above, grabbed the spider, and pulled it out. It was a small thing, smaller than his fist, but with wiggly tentacles instead of legs and no face to speak of.

He tossed it away.

“Finally!” Laura cried out in joy, forgetting the deadly danger they were in. Tears of gratitude fell from her face. “Thank you, Headless! You’re the best undead!”

“Hey!”

“You shut up! I told you this was a bad idea! We should have stayed put!”

“Don’t curse at me, you bi⁠—”

A tentacle found his skull, hitting him straight in the nose—or the hole for it—and interrupting his words. Laura pushed him from behind to keep going.

“If you wanted to stay put,” he continued, “you should have insisted!”

“But you insisted!”

“Because I was right!”

“Right? Does this”—she paused to slide into a turn—“seem right to you, you idiot?”

“You just turned right!”

She glared daggers at his back. “I hate you!”

“Likewise!”

Headless roared. If they had time to talk, they could run faster.

A large crack loomed on their right. It was empty, fortunately, but also one they’d never seen before.

“We’re going the wrong way!” Laura cried out.

“No, we’re not! I remember our path!”

“Remember better!”

“How can I remember better?”

Boney tuned her out to remember better. Between dodging tentacles, watching his footing, and running at high speed, he also had to backtrack the path they came from, all the way to that large chasm. The tentacle person was sliding instead of walking, so maybe it couldn’t cross the chasm. That was their only hope.

Boney looked back and instantly regretted his decision.

A nightmare of a thousand tentacles stared him down, sliding effortlessly after them. Its tentacle body resembled entwined roots filled with cockroaches, and its face, or lack thereof, was so grotesque it awakened disgust deep inside Boney’s undead soul.

He quickly turned back to the front. If he had sweat glands, they’d be working at full throttle right now.

“Right, left, right, right, left…” he muttered to himself, following turn after turn. Needless to say, this was difficult, and to top it off, he was already lost—but he couldn’t tell Laura, could he?

“Are we getting there?” she asked, panting. “I’m tired!”

“Almost there!” he shouted back, praying to every single God to help them find the way. How big can the maze possibly be!

Very—but the particular part of the maze they were in, not so much.

Suddenly, Boney noticed a familiar wall. He easily recognized it because he’d gotten scared of his shadow there, and fear makes memories vivid.

“I know where we are!” he exclaimed. “We’re almost there!”

“Wha—You idiot! You were lost?”

“Not anymore!”

“I’m going to kill you!”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I’m already dead!”

Headless roared in excitement. A corner appeared up ahead, but there was no floor out there; it was dark like a starless night.

“We made it!” Boney cried out. “Jump, everyone!”

They did not jump. Instead, they screeched to a halt, and the only reason they made it in time was their shoes’ quality. A swarm of tentacles rose from the chasm and every single tentacle monster went berserk by the sound. Their tentacles met and wrestled, mistaking each other for prey, devolving into a wide brawl.

In the eyes of the fleeing trio, those tentacles were a wall. There was no way to get through them.

Their hearts, literal or otherwise, seized in their chests, and their breaths got stuck in their throats. Blood banged in their temples, and their entire body was filled with the limitless energy of despair, all exhaustion forgotten as they faced the horror at their heels.

The grotesque tentacle person approached, slowing down as it had them cornered. Just this fact made it ten times scarier, indicating intelligence. Each arm unraveled into three thick tentacles, taut as if filled with muscle. Its face resembled a horde of insects as the small tentacles there wiggled like mad, exposing a gaping mouth and a throat made of tentacles.

Getting chewed by that would mean a horrible, horrible death.

Boney was shivering. If he had the ability, he would have probably soiled his pants. Laura was a hero for keeping her dress pristine, as she was shaking even harder than the skeleton.

“I don’t want to die!” they both cried out at the same time.

Fortunately, neither did Headless. He shouted a disembodied roar, drew his glaive, and lunged at the creature. There was no hesitation, no fear in his assault—either he hadn’t developed the intelligence for it, or he was the world’s bravest zombie.

For a moment, time froze, and Boney and Laura were left staring at his wide back.

A hero… they both thought at once, their eyes starry.

The zombie clashed against the monster, and the sound of metal slicing flesh filled the air. A glaive was a long, heavy weapon; wielding it properly took both strength and finesse, especially in these narrow corridors, where maintaining the weapon’s momentum without hitting the walls was like threading a needle.

However, who was Headless? He had been born with a detached head and no coordination. He couldn’t even walk at first. He’d practiced hard and turned his weakness into a strength. Let alone walking, he’d learned to dance and even became a master juggler. Moreover, zombies were physically gifted to begin with.

If Headless couldn’t use a glaive, nobody could!

The creature pushed forward, and Headless held it back. Tentacles were sliced in swathes. More took their place as the creature’s mass slowly—very slowly—decreased. For a few moments, they were at an impasse.

Victory was far away, but it was possible—and Headless’s courage was contagious.

Boney and Laura clenched their fists. Their fear transformed into grim determination, all thoughts escaping their mind as they focused on a sole task: fighting.

The flask’s top popped off. Water rushed out like a small flood to envelop the creature, drenching its robe and limiting its mobility. The water invaded its body and wreaked havoc, pushing left and pulling right as it ruined the myriad tentacles’ razor-thin coordination.

The creature’s tentacles flailed as the glaive cut them down, and the advancing monstrosity was finally brought to a halt.

Headless and Laura were just barely holding the thing at bay, while Boney could only stand and watch, as he couldn’t fight at range. His metaphorical heart skipped a beat.

Can we do it? he thought, clenching his fists. He looked back, where a dozen tentacles slapped the floor and several dozen wiggled through the air. Please!

The monster ran out of patience. With a wet, slurping sound, it decided to disregard Headless’s assault and charge. Boney’s feet went cold. Oh, shit!

The tentacle monster dove into the glaive’s reach, taking a strong hit at the waist and another that cleaved an entire arm off—but, by then, it reached them. Headless could not retreat; the wall of tentacles was right behind him.

He grunted as he grabbed the glaive’s body near the blade, using it as a sword to fight up close, but the creature was relentless. It fell on him like a swarm of locusts. One tentacle after another jumped out of its body, and though Headless fought bravely, he was soon overwhelmed and wrapped by eight tentacles which pulled him toward the creature.

He grabbed its shoulders to push away, but the tentacles wiggled under his grasp, and suddenly, he held nothing. A few thin tentacles shot for where his head should be, aiming for his orifices, and they were stunned when they found nothing. The poor thing had no eyes—how could it guess that Headless’s head hung on his chest by the straps Jerry had made so long ago?

Laura’s water filled the creature’s body, more and more of the liquid appearing out of thin air. Her eyes glowed a deep blue as she went all-out, but there was little she could do against creatures that didn’t need to breathe.

Headless was almost hugging the creature now, and his feet had left the ground. Small tentacles scouted his body, looking for openings. One found his head. He was about to be destroyed in a horrific fashion, and he was helpless, as his glaive could not be used at such proximity. He’d dropped it a while ago, anyway.

While the creature was busy destroying Headless, Boney ran past them, into the open corridor behind. Into escape. Laura’s eyes widened. She screamed, “NO!”

Somehow, a sword appeared in Headless’s right hand. He instantly slashed down between him and the creature, cutting all the tentacles binding them, but it was a temporary solution—the creature had many more, and he couldn’t take another step back.

And then, a savior appeared.

With a shout to silence his fear, Boney turned around and rammed into the creature from behind. Disgust engulfed him as he fell on the wiggling, ever-changing body. It felt like hugging an open bag of cockroaches. He instantly wanted to retreat, but his momentum was still there.

The creature did not expect an attack from behind. Its tentacles hesitated, not knowing what to do, and remained solid under Boney’s body. That moment was enough.

Boney’s charge pushed the creature forward into Headless, who let himself fall on his back. His feet rose to meet the creature’s waist and pushed at the same time as Boney. With the two working together, the monster lost its footing and flew off the ground, over Headless, and right into the mass of waiting tentacles.

It tried to latch onto the zombie, but Boney used his dagger to cut it off. It tried to grab onto the ground, but Laura’s water made its blind grip slide off.

It fell into the chasm and all hell broke loose. Finally finding prey, tentacles assaulted it from every side, and the creature madly fought back, initiating a battle of hundreds of tentacles.

But it couldn’t win.

With a massive, unwilling, slurping sound, the creature’s cloak was torn apart, and its entire body unraveled, revealing a slug-shaped thing in its midst. The tentacle monsters latched onto it from all angles and broke it into pieces. The creature went still as the remains of its body were sucked in like pasta by multiple dark maws at once.

In a single moment, the tentacle person just wasn’t there anymore. It had been completely devoured. Satisfied, the tentacles receded, letting calmness ensue.

Though not all of them. One tentacle monster was close to their side of the corridor and kept slapping the ground. Everyone backed off to a safe distance, but the tentacles… found Headless’s head!

It had fallen off while fighting the monster!

“NO!” Boney cried out, diving to grab the head just as two tentacles wrapped around it. With each side pulling, it was a tug of war with Headless’s head as the prize, and Boney was losing. He was getting pulled into the chasm, but he refused to let go.

Laura’s arms wrapped around his waist and slowed him down. Headless’s arms wrapped around her waist and brought the tug of war to a tie, neither side able to pull the other, but time was not their ally. If they stalled, the other tentacle monsters would soon realize dinner was not over, and if they reached out, the trio was well within their range. Headless’s head was dangling just over the tip of the dark chasm.

They gritted their teeth and pulled harder. They were finally making some progress, but a tentacle suddenly wrapped around Boney’s arm, and another around his leg. More crawled up his body, heading for the others as well. The monsters were awakening again, and Boney was in their grasp. Despair got to him. He was doomed.

“No!” he shouted. “NO! Master!”

A shadow passed over them. In their moment of despair, a flurry of arrows appeared like divine intervention, unerringly piercing through each and every moving tentacle.

The trio tumbled back as all resistance disappeared, with Headless’s head safe in their grasp. More tentacles rose to chase them, but a pair of axes fell at blinding speed and cut them down. The tentacles retreated with a series of defeated slurping sounds, revealing the duo on the other side of the chasm, barely within axe range.

It was Axehand and Horace, standing straight and proud.

“Hey,” Horace said. “So, this is where you were.”

Laura’s eyes were filled with tears, and so would Boney’s if they could. The two jumped over the chasm and hugged Axehand, holding on as if they’d never let go. The double-skeleton grunted in confusion once and stayed still, but the two crying people didn’t let go.

“Axehand!” Boney cried out. “I love you!”

“You’re the best, Axehand!”

“Why’s he taking all the credit?” Horace asked, and Headless, eager to bring justice, jumped over the chasm and fell on Horace, dropping them both to the floor.

“Oof! What are you doing, you buffoon?”

But the trio were so happy they could not speak properly.

“They’re just happy to be alive—or unalive, I guess,” came a voice behind everyone as Jerry, Boboar, and Foxy rounded the corner. The necromancer sported a wide smile. “So am I. I don’t know what I’d do without you guys.”

“MASTER!” Boney instantly let go of Axehand and jumped at Jerry. “I knew you’d save us!”

“Of course, Boney, of course,” Jerry said, patting his back. “It was genius of you to make so much noise; we couldn’t miss you if we wanted to!”

75

YOU ARE WORTHY

Jericho was fighting. His long, dark, oily hair swiped through the air as he ducked under a massive club, then clenched his large fist. With a fearsome roar, he buried it deep into the giant’s stomach—the highest part he could reach.

The giant reeled, pale skin going slack on its bare belly. Jericho’s punch wasn’t enough to bring it down, but that was part of the plan.

The moment the giant hunched, a wooden club thick as a trunk smashed against the back of its knees. It tried to growl, but the water bubble around its head stopped it.

The zombie giant wobbled before falling to a knee. It dropped its club. Jericho grabbed a handful of its dirty hair—they were face-to-face now that it was kneeling—and dragged the creature down, trying to smash its head into the ground. With a wet gurgle, the giant placed a hand on the ground to arrest its fall. The handful of hair was torn from its scalp under Jericho’s strength.

At the same time, the massive wooden club from before smashed into the back of the giant’s head. Its arm gave way and it toppled to the ground, spasming and convulsing from drowning. It was dying—again. Jericho watched it coldly.

Giants were proud creatures, even undead ones, but after this much damage, there was a chance it would surrender. It didn’t matter. They’d get what they wanted anyway.

Opposite Jericho, Gorgon the ogre raised his big club up high and, with a sickening crunch, brought it down. The giant’s head caved in, and it stilled—not quite destroyed, but certainly subdued. The water bubble around its head enhanced its despair.

Jericho shook his head. This creature, the bane of all nearby hordes, had been defeated just like that.

“Good job,” a voice came from the shadows. Herald Maccain stepped out, wreathed in darkness and mirth. “You are proving your worth, Lela. Keep it going.”

A water spirit appeared by his side, taking the form of a beautiful, blue-skinned woman with dark eyes. “The pleasure is all mine, Master,” she replied with a bow. Maccain nodded.

“Now then,” he said, taking a step toward the fallen giant, “step aside, Jericho.”

Jericho obeyed. His insides convulsed at being ordered around, but he had no choice. This was his master, and he was an undead. At least he was useful, so Maccain would keep him around—unlike a certain someone.

Maccain approached Gorgon. The dim-witted brute stood proudly over the subdued opponent. He was too stupid to understand what was coming for him; too stupid to realize that the giant they’d defeated was just a better version of himself.

“A cloud giant will be a wonderful addition to my collection,” Maccain said, stepping before Gorgon. “Thank you for your service.” He touched Gorgon’s chest. There was a transfusion of power. The next moment, Gorgon toppled to the ground, completely lifeless.

Maccain then turned to the cloud giant. “Arise,” he commanded. The giant shook, his caved-in skull popped back out, then he pushed against the ground to stand again. Everyone’s heads rose with him. His eyes held loyalty.

Cloud giants, at least this particular one, stood over ten feet tall. Maccain smiled. “What a rare find. A cloud giant under his clouds… Tell me, what were you doing here?”

The giant looked on, not responding. Maccain shook his head. “No matter. Your power remains, and that is all I need. Welcome. I will call you Bogdanov.”

The cloud giant nodded, then bowed deeply. Maccain’s smile widened.

Jericho took this all in with apathy. It wasn’t the first time he witnessed Maccain’s powers, and he had to admit that his master was a very capable man. He was ruthless, cunning, and calculating. He was always two steps ahead, and he was steadily accumulating enormous power.

Wizards became two-feathered when they experienced their Awakening. Their powers advanced, giving each wizard a special variation of magic that only they possessed, and one that was perfectly suited for them. A large part of Awakening was understanding the exact nature of your power before it appeared, which required deep awareness of yourself and magic.

Maccain was a two-feather wizard stronger than most, as were all Herald. His Awakening allowed him to gain control of wild undead, as well as steal the undead of other necromancers.

It was a frightening power. But, then again, all of them were.

Thanks to it, Maccain had easy access to strong undead, which were normally extremely hard to find. He formed an elite team of three undead at a time, choosing quality over quantity, and roamed the King Continent seeking stronger undead to replace the ones in his collection.

When Jericho joined, Maccain had forsaken a sword-wielding undead. When the previous water spirit fell fighting Jerry Shoeson, Maccain assaulted and defeated a necromancer nearby Edge Town, stealing his death knight water spirit, Lela. Then, they’d crossed the Damn Wall and toured the Dead Lands, heading for the Academy, the Wizard Order’s headquarters, from where Maccain had received a summoning.

On the way, they heard about an undead cloud giant roaming a valley. Maccain ignored his summoning and spent two days looking for the cloud giant. They’d found it, and now that they defeated it, Maccain replaced Gorgon with this new undead, Bogdanov.

Unlike Gorgon, Jericho wasn’t stupid. He understood that, eventually, he too would be replaced, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was only a stepping stone on a necromancer’s road to the top. Maccain would forsake him just as Gaia had.

Burning pain assaulted Jericho’s heart.

Oh, Mother, he thought, looking at the ground, why did you abandon me?

The group had finally gathered back together. After a brief discussion, they understood the maze’s layout.

It was split into four regions, with one being the starting area and the other three being under the pit trap. Of those three, one contained tentacle monsters and was run by the tentacle person, one contained the pack of hell hounds and was run by Akolateronim, and the third contained all sorts of dangerous undead and the Guardian, as well as the door leading deeper—presumably to the fake Prism.

Axehand and Horace discovered that door shortly after defeating the Guardian—who they claimed was underwhelming—then returned to find their companions.

Now that everyone was back together and the maze was mostly cleaned of enemies, the group made a beeline for the door and reached it easily. It was made of white marble, striking against the maze’s black walls. The veins of black glass that ran all over the maze converged here, and the doorframe—also made of black glass—was so packed with energy it shone purple.

There was also a sizable lock. They had found no key, but the door swung open after a polite knock by Axehand, revealing the space beyond.

They found a large empty room, far larger than expected in an underground environment. The ceiling rose at least fifteen feet high, while the walls formed a circle with a diameter of around sixty feet. There were also broken skeletons sprawled around the edge of the room as if something had smashed them into the walls so hard they died—a somewhat ominous sign.

This was an unreasonably large room, which was probably only built to accommodate the device in its midst.

The fake Prism was a large black crystal the size of a child. It released power in slow, regularly spaced pulses, shining completely purple every time it did. The ripples bounced off the far-off walls and spread around the room, creating an environment so saturated with death energy that Laura found it hard to breathe.

“I will wait outside,” she said hurriedly. “This is too much.”

“Yes,” Jerry replied with a nod, “let’s not risk it. This will only take a moment, anyway. Axehand?”

The skeleton grunted as he took a step forth, raising small amounts of fine, white dust—the entire floor was covered in it. He slowly reached the crystal, resting his eyes on its smooth black surface.

On closer inspection, the crystal was covered in mystical, tiny veins woven in intricate patterns, and it contained several items Axehand could not make heads or tails of, as well as faint white lines that connected them all.

It seemed like the world’s most delicate and complex item. Axehand raised an axe to smash it to bits.

Laura had been planning to leave, but she’d stayed a few seconds longer to watch. She finally broke out of her reverie, realizing this strike might unleash death energy she wasn’t prepared to endure. She turned around to leave.

“Um, guys?” she asked. “Who closed the door?”

“What are you⁠—”

Jerry turned around to discover that the door had closed. As heavy as it was, nobody heard it move. With a clicking sound, it locked.

“Oh,” he said. “This can’t be good.”

Horace’s eyes sharpened. Axehand’s axe fell on the crystal—and with a plink, the axe flew back. The skeleton grunted as he looked at his shaking arm.

“Overcharge him, Jerry,” Horace said, and Jerry complied, but it was too late. Just as Axehand pulled back for another strike, this time using his full strength, the entire room shook. The fine dust on the floor moved with it, rippling as it rose in waves, and one wave struck Axehand, managing to push him back.

Yet, it was only dust, and he was Axehand. Pushing him should have been impossible.

“Break it!” Jerry shouted, and Axehand lunged forth, but the dust refused to calm down. More and more of it rose into the air, whirling like a typhoon as it encircled the crystal and hid it from everyone’s eyes. Axehand reached through to strike the crystal but missed—it was no longer there!

“It’s flying!” Horace said. “It’s floating in the dust tornado!” He launched three arrows in a row; each was pulled off course by the dust.

Axehand prepared to jump when everything shook again. The skeletons around the room rose shakily, each missing at least a limb, and they broke down into bones which flew into the tornado, joining it. Axehand retreated as it expanded, not wanting to be caught inside. As strong as he was, there was nothing he could do if suspended in midair.

Horace clicked his tongue. “This is a problem.”

The tornado stabilized. The bones moved on their own, assembling on top of each other to form suspicious shapes, and the tornado bent to fit inside them. Slowly, a monster was revealed, and as it did, it roared.

Nobody knew who said it, but they all shared the same thought: “Oh, shit!”

A bone monstrosity occupied the center of the room. It stood fifteen feet tall, thrice a regular person’s height, almost scratching the ceiling. Its body was made of bones, and filling it was a maelstrom of fine dust—it was now obvious that the fine white dust was ground bones.

The monstrosity had a humanoid shape, but its skull was devilish with two short horns sticking out. Its long arms ended in sharp claws, and it was impressively slim and athletic, giving an impression of speed that such a large creature shouldn’t have the right to possess. It also had a long tail trailing behind it, ending in a razor-sharp appendage.

“Woah,” Jerry said, stepping back. “What’s that?”

“A bone monstrosity,” Laura said, gritting her teeth. “I’ve seen a few before, but way smaller… Only Arakataron could make something like this!”

“It’s protecting the fake Prism,” Boney said. “Laura, if we destroy the crystal, will this thing collapse?”

“Probably. It’s either that or breaking every bone in its body.”

“Hah, good one.”

“This is not the time for jokes!” she replied. “That thing can slaughter us all!”

“It can certainly try.” Horace drew a few arrows, nocking them all at once. “My arrows can’t penetrate the dust, but they can break a few bones.”

“Axehand can⁠—”

The monstrosity didn’t give them any more time. It charged.

Axehand was at its feet and didn’t back down. Already overcharged and at the peak of his power, he met it head-on. The monstrosity’s claws whistled through the air, faster than most people could react, but the twin axes were there to stop them.

The two collided with a rattling bang, multiple bones breaking off as they couldn’t stand the force. Despite being overcharged, Axehand barely managed to defend; he stumbled, and crimson flames flared in his eye sockets. This thing was at least a worthy opponent, if not an overwhelming one. It had challenged him, and now, he would rather perish than retreat.

The broken bones didn’t affect the monstrosity much. They flew back to their original positions, rearranging into a more robust shape. Layers upon layers of bones formed a massive fist to resist Axehand’s attacks, sending cold sweat down everyone’s backs.

This thing wasn’t only strong, it could adapt, too!

“What a terrifying creature…” Jerry wet his lips. “Arakataron… The gap between me and the peak is larger than I thought.”

Boney stepped beside him. “I will protect you, Master!” he said, drawing a sword.

“Thank you, Boney, but I think you and I can do nothing here.”

Jerry’s soul had already probed the creature and found nothing. The bones weren’t controlled by soul ties. This thing wasn’t animated through necromancy—at least not the necromancy he knew.

Was this really made by Arakataron?

The creature’s demonic head released a harsh, grating sound like nails on glass. Rearing a fist back, it slammed it down on Axehand, who had to dodge out of the way. The creature turned its entire body toward the double-skeleton, and boulder-sized punches rained down like a landslide.

Axehand was struggling. No matter how hardy he was, the force of these strikes was cataclysmic. The monstrosity was denting the rock below him, making his footing unstable. Maybe he could survive one strike, but definitely not two.

He weaved between the punches like a fly, dodging by a hair’s breadth. When forced, he used his axes to parry the strikes, not daring to meet them head-on, and even the parries made his entire body release cracking sounds.

Worst of all, the monstrosity was still adapting. The outer bones of its fists left to reinforce its body, exchanging power for speed. Axehand could hold on… but for how long?

Horace stepped forth. “Listen to me,” he commanded sternly. “Axehand and I will handle this thing. The rest of you stand back. Understood?”

Jerry nodded. He wanted to help, but there was nothing he could do against this thing. Everything came down to good old brute force.

As Jerry and the rest of his undead stepped back, only Horace was left. His wiry body went taut. His left hand clenched the bow as his sharp eyes tracked the monstrosity’s movements, capturing minute changes to identify its patterns. He stood still like a rock, only staring—but, with each second that passed, his eyes grew sharper.

Axehand was desperately enduring a rain of blows, but he was not afraid. His movements were aggressive even under pressure, absorbing the damage as he scoured the monstrosity for weaknesses.

Horace’s eyes flashed as he pulled at his bowstring. He was ready.

Axehand’s eye-flames flared as he dodged a strike by the narrowest of margins. He was ready.

The two hunters teamed up. Two sharp gazes fell on the monstrosity—and, for a moment, it shuddered.

A fist of bones descended, but an arrow struck its weak point and ruined its structural stability. Axehand smashed it to pieces, then spared a glare for Horace, who smirked.

Work around me. Let’s team up, Horace conveyed through his gaze, and the double-skeleton grunted.

Just this once, he seemed to reply. Horace smiled.

Just this once.

Arrows should have been ineffective against bones, but in such a high-speed battle, even the slightest of effects were important. Horace’s arrows were launched from a fully taut bow. Even against the bone monstrosity, he could make a difference.

The monstrosity growled in fury. Its punches accelerated, but the two hunters were harmonized. Arrows intercepted the most dangerous blows, sending them out of Axehand’s way, and the double-skeleton dodged the rest. Their coordination wasn’t perfect, but they were getting there.

Finally, a fist of bones completely missed the mark, and Axehand had a moment to breathe. Coincidentally, he was right beside one of the monstrosity’s legs. The leg towered there, thick and steady like an old tree.

The world’s greatest lumberjack would have none of that. In his mind, the room turned into a forest clearing, and the bone leg turned into a lone tree which mocked him by standing.

An axe smashed heavily into the leg, sending bones flying and making the entire monstrosity shake as it almost toppled over. Axehand reared back for another strike, humming a jolly tune, when the leg went away.

The monstrosity turned, faster than he’d thought possible, and a thick tail was suddenly heading Axehand’s way. There was no time to dodge. He raised both axes vertically to block, and as soon as they made contact, he knew that was a mistake.

Axehand was launched back at tremendous speed, smashing against the far wall and forming a crater. “Axehand!” Jerry yelled, but his voice was covered by the monstrosity’s triumphant roar.

It turned to glare at Horace and pounced.

76

A BONE MONSTROSITY

Marcus sat and watched the Billies mime.

“They’re sad?” he asked. “No, trapped? Are they trapped?”

Billy One moved his hand: so and so.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” A vein popped on Marcus’s temple. “Come on, boys, try harder; how difficult can it be?”

The Billies glanced at each other, then resumed miming. They stood together, then opened their mouths in surprise and moved away from each other.

The four of them were in continuous contact with Jerry, so they knew what was happening. Marcus didn’t, and they couldn’t speak or write, so they were trying to mime the message across.

“Oh!” Marcus exclaimed. “They split up!”

Billy One gave a thumbs-up.

“Haha, I got it! Good job, boys!”

The Billies giggled, while Marcus smiled in pride. He really liked these zombies, for some reason; maybe because they followed his orders, or because they were well-behaved and willing to learn. They’d absorbed his teachings well, and they could already fly the airship with some degree of skill.

He was proud of them. In time, maybe they will grow to be wonderful sailors… What good boys.

“Okay, and then what?” he asked. “Did they meet up again?”

The Billies groaned. Did they really have to describe all that?

Inwardly, they hoped that Birb would suddenly cut through the Mists, warning them of an impending attack by Arakataron’s forces. If that happened, the ship would lure the attackers away while the rest of the group traveled to Arakataron on foot and assaulted him directly.

Of course, the plan was that Arakataron’s reinforcements would arrive after they were done with the dungeon. The ship distracting them was only plan B.

Plan C was that, if Arakataron sent too few or no warriors at all, they would have to make new plans.

The Billies hoped for someone to save them, but no enemies appeared. Therefore, they were forced to mime, and, as if to spite their efforts, Marcus looked at the Mists with a satisfied gaze. They’re still not here… The plan is going great!

A dozen plate-armored, long-armed forms crossed the Mists of Death. Wherever they passed, the tentacle monsters wrinkled in their cracks, and the mutated fauna hurried to flee.

These creatures didn’t care about hunting. They only had one destination: the Prism Dungeon.

Their eyes burned crimson as they made haste.

The bone monstrosity lunged at Horace with the speed of a horse and the mass of a house.

It was a slim, human-shaped giant of bones and furiously swirling bone dust. Jagged claws adorned its hands, while a long tail stretched behind it, ending in a razor-like appendage. Moreover, two horns jutted out of its skull, and the bones on its face formed a wide, devilish grin.

It looked apocalyptic—and it was.

The monster’s speed seemed extravagant for its bulk, and its strength was enough to overpower an overcharged Axehand.

The monstrosity’s only weak spot seemed to be the fake Prism hidden in its chest; unfortunately, it was well-protected. To reach it, one would have to pierce the monstrosity’s bone armor and resist the tornado of sharp bone dust inside it. They could barely see its glow.

This monstrosity was the final guardian of the Prism Dungeon, and it was the most frightening opponent Jerry had ever met. It made Jericho seem like a village bully.

Since the start of the battle, most of them could only remain on the sidelines and watch. Only Axehand and Horace could try to fight this thing; anyone else would be instantly annihilated.

Now, Axehand was lodged in the wall, his status unknown. Horace remained standing before the beast, and as it reached him, growling and screeching like a predatory menace, his eyes narrowed. He clenched his bow, and his entire body went taut as the beast’s bone fist shot right at him.

And then, he disappeared.

The bone fist met the ground so hard both cratered, but Horace was no longer there. The monstrosity screeched as it looked around, fierce crimson flames burning in its eyes.

Horace’s figure flashed behind its head. An arrow was already nocked in his bow, and he launched it at the junction between two bones, but the damage was minimal. The bone monstrosity noticed him and slapped behind it—Horace was already gone.

Jerry’s jaw had reached the floor. Headless’s too, albeit more literally.

Metal flashed and the bowstring twanged as Horace unleashed arrow after arrow, each accurately aimed at a weak point. The beast proved hardy, and there was only so much damage arrows could inflict.

He was fast. His entire body seemed made of muscle and his mind of iron, his focus so sharp he seemed like a God of war; Samudil incarnate. He flitted around the bone monstrosity like a persistent hornet, and the beast howled in impotent fury, swinging wildly but unable to harm even a hair on his head. He landed on walls, bones, floor, even the ceiling, jumping everywhere as if his range of movement was greater than the chamber around him.

Axehand had been able to resist the monstrosity, too, but only barely. He was fast, but his dominance mainly lay in strength and resilience. Horace was the opposite.

Unfortunately, no matter how he tried, he simply couldn’t damage the monstrosity. Bones flew left and right on its body, fortifying its defenses as it adjusted on the fly, and any hole Horance managed to create on its armor was immediately covered up.

He gritted his teeth. “Axehand! How long are you going to keep watching?”

A grunt came from the dented wall as a bulky skeletal figure rose. Cracks spread over his ribs, but he was whole, and he moved his head left and right as if cracking his neck. The crimson flames in his eyes shone so bright they illuminated his entire skull, and the red steam coming from his body increased in density as he forcefully drew more energy from Jerry.

The necromancer gritted his teeth as he complied; only an idiot would hold back at this point, but…

The hell! How did Axehand become the master here?

Axehand crouched as his entire body flashed red, and the wall behind him exploded as he shot out. His eyes drew crimson lines through the air, and his excited grunt was warped by sheer speed.

The monstrosity saw him coming and struck out with a punch. Horace was right between them, and he cursed as he hurriedly jumped away.

Axehand and the fist collided with a colossal bang that shook the entire room. Jerry grabbed his ears and grimaced, while Laura’s concentration faltered momentarily. She was still conjuring water and sending it into the monstrosity, but whether it made any difference or not was unclear.

Axehand flew back and was nailed into a wall, sending cracks all over, but the monstrosity wasn’t unharmed either. Its fist had imploded, revealing the dust tornado beneath and sending bones flying left in all directions. It howled in pain.

Horace didn’t lose any time. Three arrows quickly found their way to the monstrosity’s broken-off wrist, using it as their entry point into the human-shaped dust tornado. Their trajectory pointed right at the thing’s heart—the fake Prism—but the tornado drew them off course, sending them in random directions and grinding them into pieces.

Horace gritted his teeth again. The monstrosity’s hand reformed. Axehand jumped out of the wall, with even more cracks lining his body, and landed beside Horace.

The three forms stared at each other.

“Can you still fight?” Horace asked, glancing at Axehand. The skeleton grunted. “Good.” He looked back at the beast. “Let’s hunt this thing.”

Axehand and Horace combined forces, and the monstrosity opened its bone maw to growl right in their faces.

All three lunged at once, moving at speeds that befuddled the eye. Horace’s form left behind afterimages as it almost disappeared; he wasn’t shooting this time—the monstrosity had proven its resilience—but waiting. When Axehand created a weakness, he would capitalize.

Axehand lacked Horace’s speed. Facing the monstrosity, whose body had already been optimized for speed, he could only meet it head-on. At least it sacrificed some strength in the process, so he could endure.

They traded blow for blow. Bones were cut in half and sent flying, yet the monstrosity recovered quickly. Every time Axehand slashed part of it off, it didn’t seem any worse for wear.

Axehand was pushed slightly back after each exchange, holding his own—and, as the two kept clashing, his fighting spirit only grew, releasing a series of loud grunts as his flames burned ever crimson.

Every time Axehand broke the monstrosity, a few arrows would fly into the gap and lodge themselves inside before it reformed, harming the thing’s cohesion and making its fists resemble hedgehogs. It wasn’t much, but it was the best they could do.

Jerry gritted his teeth. We’re losing, he realized. The Prism had stopped releasing the Curse and was instead feeding all its energy into the monstrosity.

“You must break the core!” he shouted. “This monster has infinite power. You cannot exhaust it!”

“I know!” Horace growled, spinning to dodge a tail whip. “But how?”

Jerry and Boney looked at each other; how were they supposed to know? The monstrosity seemed impregnable!

Then the monstrosity did something different. Taking a few steps back, it opened its clawed hand, and bones from all over its body rushed there to form three torso-sized, tightly packed bone balls that spun in midair.

Axehand and Horace braced themselves. The monstrosity threw the bone balls… and they headed for Jerry!

“Master!”

Boney jumped on Jerry and barely pushed him out of the way, letting the three balls crash on the wall behind him.

“Boney!” Jerry cried from the ground. “You saved me!”

“I would never let anything happen to you, Master!”

Jerry smiled; at the same time, he could feel all his undead boiling with fury. This thing had attacked their Master; it would pay.

“It’s okay guys, just keep your coo—Oh no.”

“Oh no?”

Everyone followed Jerry’s gaze. On the wall behind him, the three bone balls were squirming. They expanded, their bones spreading out and assembling themselves into arms, legs, torsos, heads, even swords. Six skeletal warriors rose behind Jerry, staring him down.

“Oh no,” Laura agreed.

Although the bone monstrosity was a force to be reckoned with, it clearly felt threatened; it could no longer afford to ignore the bystanders. Axehand and Horace still clashed against it, but they couldn’t spare any attention for these skeletons. Jerry and the others had to handle them.

“Hello,” Jerry said, dusting himself off and nodding politely. “You must be new, right? I’m Jerry, and we’re going to become the best of friends!”

The sword that flew at his head suggested their disagreement.

77

EATING A BUG

Sometimes, the boundaries between different schools of magic blur.

Take mirrors, for example; the same result can be achieved through either hydromancy or photomancy.

Another example is the connection between biomancy and necromancy. The former influences the body and the latter the soul, but these two are densely interconnected. Many applications of necromancy can be achieved through biomancy and vice versa.

Of course, each wizard wields their own flavor of magic, especially after Awakening, and even if two schools can achieve the same effect, one is usually better suited to it than the other. For example, some biomancers can raise skeletons, but they are more constructs than thinking creatures.

In any case, these connections tell a story. The lines between schools are set in stone by nature itself, as evidenced by the different kinds of nature spirits, but there is clearly something more. Unfortunately, the underlying laws remain hidden.

- An excerpt from ‘Introduction to Necromancy’ by Akolateronim

“Okay, maybe not friends, but let’s talk it out!” Jerry shouted as he rushed back. The skeletons were determined. They fanned out to surround him, and at the last moment, a broad back covered Jerry’s retreat.

It was Headless. Boboar and Foxy stood on either side of him, while Boney had also drawn his sword and taken up position in front of Jerry. Their eyes burned with crimson flames, and their jaws were clenched. They had been itching to fight; now that they finally stepped forth, nobody would harm their master.

Headless growled as he faced off against one of the skeletons, holding his glaive at the ready. The skeletons refused to give ground.

With a series of ominous clacking sounds, the two teams of undead collided into a mess of bones—and a bit of flesh, as Headless was a zombie.

Blades met bones, and Headless’s glaive reaped skeletons like hay stalks, but they got back up. Fortunately, Jerry’s undead had lived for a long time, and they’d gradually grown smarter and more experienced. They were much stronger than these newborns.

Boboar oinked as he plowed through the group, enduring sword slashes to gore the skeletons. They didn’t have much to be gored, but Boboar achieved his aim nonetheless as he smashed one skeleton against the wall, destroying it—and getting a headache.

Another skeleton had been pierced by one of Boboar’s tusks and tossed into the air, where Headless’s glaive cut it in half and smashed it hard into the ground.

Foxy was deftly dodging another skeleton’s strikes and delivering her own, but her weapons—her claws and jaws—had limited effectiveness against bare bones. She could only hold one skeleton at bay. As for Boney, he stuck close to Jerry, ready to shield him from any errant attackers.

With Boboar still reeling from headbutting the wall, Headless was left to fend off three enemies by himself, and he’d also spent some time smashing the midair skeleton.

These enemies were not the smartest, but they knew how to use a blade. They surrounded Headless and fell on him like a small horde, assaulting him from all sides. The glaive was a weapon meant to fight multiple enemies, and Headless was skilled with it, but three enemies were still more than he could handle.

He spun his glaive once, using its body to meet two swords and push them back, then smashed its butt into the ribs of the skeleton behind him. He angled his shoulder to deflect a strike, letting the enemy take some flesh, and spun with force to decapitate another.

He succeeded; but to do so, he neglected his defense. A sword angled through his ribs to pierce his gut, and another almost knocked the glaive out of his hand.

The first skeleton ripped its sword out of Headless’s body and prepared for another strike. A water jet hit its skull at the last moment, sending it tumbling sideways.

“Good job, Headless!” Laura yelled, her eyes glowing a deep blue. Two water orbs floated beside her, each shooting water jet after water jet and throwing the skeletons off-balance. At the same time, water blobs flew around the enemies, dampening the coordination of their limbs.

Unfortunately, the water jets she conjured were too weak for their casting time, so they wouldn’t have helped against the tentacled monstrosity she fought in the maze. Even against these skeletons, they were barely effective.

The two remaining skeletons were completely disorganized, allowing Headless to recover. That was all he needed. He growled as he smashed his glaive into a skeleton’s head, ending its short life, and Boboar returned right then to barrel into the final skeleton and break it apart.

The skeletons were gone.

“We did it!” they all cheered together, forgetting about Headless’s gaping wound—only Jerry kept his bearings and rushed to heal the brave undead, pouring magic into their bond until Headless’s body reformed and the wound closed.

It was a neat little trick.

Everyone cheered again, happy to finally be safe. The skeletons didn’t reform, and the monstrosity’s clashes against the superhuman duo were getting more intense by the minute, not allowing it the time to toss more skeletons their way.

Though temporarily safe, their main problem remained. Axehand and Horace couldn’t overpower the monstrosity, and they couldn’t exhaust it either, as it had the power of the fake Prism.

If things continued like this, Axehand or Horace would eventually make a mistake, or they’d grow exhausted themselves, and everyone would die. Someone had to do something.

That someone set his jaw, and his crimson flames flared so intensely they spilled outside his eyes. The enemy had challenged him, matched him, then ignored him to attack his master. He had to win. He would go all-out.

The thought made his bones shiver in anticipation.

Axehand met a fist head-on, then deflected the next blow. He slipped under a strike and stepped forward, diving into the monstrosity’s guard and making himself vulnerable to the tail attack.

The tail was faster and stronger than its fists. The monstrosity growled as it spun, its tail slashing through the air like a whip… but Axehand was no longer there!

He was hanging from the monstrosity’s torso!

The beast howled, feeling threatened. It smashed fist after fist into itself, forcing Axehand to receive the blows, but he was relentless. His twin axes had lodged into its bone armor, and with a series of grunts, he ripped off layer after layer of bone.

They could reform, of course, but Axehand could use the time before they did to dig deeper. He was invading its body!

The monstrosity’s fists rained harder than before as it ignored all damage to itself. Axehand’s body was riddled with cracks, but he was already past a few layers of armor, and the punches only drove him deeper. Moreover, they weakened the nearby bones, making them easier to pry off.

The monstrosity was strong but lacked true intelligence. Right now, Axehand was using that to his advantage.

Horace’s sharp eyes twinkled. The fake Prism was in the monstrosity’s chest, but he couldn’t shoot it directly because its torso was protected by thick layers of bone armor that his arrows could never penetrate.

However, if Axehand could tear its chest open…

Horace grinned.

Unfortunately, the monster’s stupidity had a limit. Realizing its punches didn’t work, it grabbed Axehand and pulled him away. He resisted; with herculean strength, he dug his axe-hands so deep into the bone armor they reached the dust tornado behind it.

The monstrosity still dragged him out, tearing its own body apart in the process. It raised Axehand high and smashed him into the ground, spreading a web of cracks on the stone floor.

Its body now sported a massive hole that was rapidly filling in. In a few moments, the damage would be repaired.

And a few moments were enough.

Horace’s legs were steady and his eyes sharp. He wouldn’t get another opportunity like this. In that short window of time, he unleashed every single remaining arrow—half a quiver—into the monstrosity.

The arrows flew true through the hole, piercing straight into its chest. The dust tornado spun fiercely. All arrows were pulled off course; not by much, but enough to miss their original target.

However, Horace hadn’t just aimed for the monstrosity’s heart—the fake Prism. He’d used seven arrows to create a net, one aiming for the heart and the other six forming a net around it. No matter how the tornado pulled, one of them was bound to hit the heart.

And it did—only to ricochet off. After all, even Axehand’s direct strike hadn’t managed to break the fake Prism.

That didn’t make the arrow useless. The heart shook in place as its connection to the monstrosity faltered, robbing it of senses and mobility. It teetered on the brink of collapse, but Horace had run out of arrows.

Eventually, it recovered.

The heart stabilized again, and the monstrosity’s body steadied. A torrent of bones flew from other parts of its body to fill in the hole, and soon, its chest was as good as new. Axehand’s and Horace’s all-out efforts had been in vain.

The monstrosity released a triumphant roar. The enemies had failed, and it would now annihilate them, starting from the most annoying one. Its tail flashed in the air as the razor-like appendage reflected the torchlight, and it pierced into the dust-filled crater left by Axehand’s body like a spear.

Nobody could stop it. The tail struck hard and fast, and it penetrated three feet deep as the stone cracked and split.

Everything fell into silence. The dust cleared. And when it did, Axehand’s body was not there. The tail had stabbed only stone.

The monstrosity was startled. It looked around but didn’t find him.

Horace was smirking, having already sheathed his bow. The monstrosity felt something wrong—it had butterflies in its stomach, which should have been impossible. What, then, was it feeling?

The crimson flames of its eyes turned white. Something was inside it.

It was Axehand.

During the few moments when the monstrosity had lost control, Axehand launched himself off the ground and into the hole in its chest. The hole had sealed itself, trapping him inside. Except he wasn’t trapped—the fake Prism was.

Because now, nothing stood between the two except for a tornado made of dust—a tornado that Axehand’s durable body could easily penetrate.

The monstrosity screeched in panic. Its claws dug into its own body as it struggled to dismember itself again, but its functions were limited, and it had to do so by hand.

As the monstrosity ripped bone after bone from itself, Axehand’s crimson gaze was honed on the fake Prism. The last time he’d struck it, he’d failed. It wouldn’t happen again.

He took his time. Raising an axe high into the air, he poured all of his overcharged strength into the strike. The dust tornado could not stop him, and there was nowhere for the fake Prism to run—it was already entombed within its own creation.

Axehand grunted; a single axe flashed and crashed into the fake Prism at full force. The impact was titanic. Axehand’s all-out attack had previously cleaved off an entire whale tail, but the crystal almost managed to resist.

Almost.

With a final, intense grunt, Axehand cut straight through the fake Prism. The monstrosity froze. The bones stopped flying.

Like shattering glass, the entire fake Prism imploded. The monstrosity collapsed into a heap of bones, and Axehand stood up through it.

His body and face were filled with cracks, but he was victorious. He and Horace glanced at each other and nodded.

Headless yelled in triumph.

They had won.

78

DISTURBING THE ARCHMAGES

The moment the fake Prism broke—or, to be precise, when it hid in the monstrosity and stopped releasing the Curse—an invisible ripple spread throughout the entire world.

In a towering cathedral on a barren mountainside, groups of wizards walked together and discussed in spirited tones. Others sat in lecture halls, listening to their professors teach the ways of magic, while yet more were huddled in solitary laboratories. The Academy could have been an inspiring place if not for the abundance of slaves on its grounds, both death spirits and unlucky non-wizards.

At the very top of the cathedral, in a wooden office with a broad view and plants growing on every side, a blond, blue-eyed man looked up. His brows furrowed, and his warm attitude sharpened.

“There is no Archmage,” he concluded after a moment of thought. “Arakataron can handle it.” Then, he returned to inspecting the cage before him, where a little mouse screamed as it grew two extra legs.

Under a lush, exotic island, in a large cave with black walls and slow rivers of magma, the eyes of a burly, cross-legged man snapped open. His mouth formed a wild smile.

“Are they making their move?” he wondered, barely containing his excitement. He jumped up. “Finally!”

Atop a tall, pristine white tower, a man and a woman were having tea under the afternoon sunlight. The man wore long yellow robes, and the woman blue ones. Suddenly, both looked northeast.

“Who was that?” the man asked. His skin was a healthy shade of bronze, and it faintly glowed. “Did Alabaster mess up?”

“They wouldn’t,” the woman replied, whose blue eyes were deeper than the darkest seas. When she spoke, her voice came and went like gentle waves, “Probably a rogue two-feather… Do you think the Order will connect them to us?”

“Definitely.” The man nodded, letting out a sigh. “Let’s just hope Arakataron interrogates the intruders before killing them, so he finds out we’re unrelated… It’s a shame, but they can only blame themselves for being rash.”

The woman’s eyes glazed over, but she didn’t speak.

In a place where the sun didn’t shine and the ground was replaced by liquified death energy, a robed skeleton floated in midair. A thick black beam around him reached all the way to the sky. Purple flames appeared in the skeleton’s eyes and his thin mustache trembled.

“Gregorian,” he spoke without turning around. “The ritual is approaching completion, and I cannot step away. If the intruders are arrogant enough to come here, you must deal with them, but be careful; they defeated Orsel’s bone beast. If they don’t come, just let them go. I’ll get them later.”

A person in dark plate armor kneeled behind him. Black mist oozed from inside his helmet.

“Yes, Master.”

“What terrible timing…” Arakataron muttered, gritting his teeth. “But in the end, it doesn’t matter. When the ritual is complete, that Jerry’s soul will be the very first sacrifice.”

He’d sensed the intrusion on the Prism Dungeon as soon as it happened and dispatched a squad of death knights, but that was all he could do. With the ritual at such a critical juncture, he couldn’t step away, even if that meant sacrificing the artificial Prism and the Curse. They’d already done their job, anyway.

Behind him, Gregorian began coordinating the forces. A dozen death knights spread out, as well as many zombie monstrosities with stitched-up bodies.

Arakataron’s forces were a steel wall, and Jerry’s team was about to ram into it headfirst.

A wide smile blossomed on Jerry’s face as he watched Axehand rise through the monstrosity’s remains.

We did it… he realized. We broke the Curse!

The Curse had caused Jerry a great many problems. Because of it, he’d had to spend fifteen years half braindead, and they were not pretty. He’d been shunned by everyone, including his parents, and targeted on many occasions. When he’d tried to settle in Pilpen, almost nobody accepted him, and they even chased him out of the village with torches and pitchforks—or rather, they tried.

In the Three Kingdoms, Jerry had been a pariah, and that was all because of the marginalization of necromancers.

Lifting the Curse had been his goal, and he’d finally succeeded. With the fake Prism gone, the Curse and the Dead Lands would dissipate soon enough, and then, no other necromancer would have to endure what Jerry had—hopefully.

His smile widened. He was happy.

Of course, that was all on the assumption that he could kill Arakataron… but, if he lost, he would die—for real this time—and then he’d have nothing to worry about anyway.

“Great job, guys,” Jerry spoke to his undead. “I’m proud of you; especially you, Axehand.”

Axehand grunted in satisfaction, reaching for his flask and taking a sip. The other undead weren’t jealous of Axehand; they knew he deserved the praise, and they only resolved to work harder in the future. Besides, they were all friends, and friends shouldn’t feel jealous of each other.

“We must go,” Horace said. “Arakataron’s forces will arrive soon, and we must be gone before they do.”

That was their entire plan, after all. Lure a part of Arakataron’s undead army to the dungeon, then sneak past them to attack the Archmage. That was their only chance.

“Thank you too, Horace,” Jerry said. “We couldn’t have succeeded without you. You’re the hero of your tribe; no, of the entire Dead Lands!”

Horace gave a slight smile. “I just did my duty. Let’s go.”

“Yes.” Jerry nodded. “No backup has arrived yet. If we hurry, we should make it in time.”

“Maybe we overestimated Arakataron,” Laura said. “Maybe he has no idea what’s happening.”

Jerry shook his head. “If I can sense the ripples of the Curse, so can the Necromancy Archmage… Even if he didn’t know before, he definitely does now.”

Everyone exchanged worried glances.

They fled the way they came, rushing as fast as possible. Axehand and Horace had discovered the exit while searching for the others, and they made their way there before heading back to the shallow tunnels.

“What’s that, Jerry?” Laura asked, looking at the necromancer’s side.

“Oh, this?” He drew a small book from his belt. “This is the Introduction to Necromancy! I borrowed it from a dead eye.”

“A dead eye?” she asked, receiving the book and looking it over.

“Yeah. It was a creature, Akolanim or something; the one I talked about before.”

“Akolateronim?”

“Yeah! How did you guess it?”

“I didn’t. I read it.” She pointed at the bottom of the book’s cover. “It wrote this book.”

“Oh.” Jerry’s eyes went wide. “Oh, Gods. I killed an author!”

“An enemy one, so it’s okay.” She shrugged.

“Hmm, weird,” Boney quipped from the side. “I thought that guy was a floating eye. How did it write a book?”

“It had little tentacles, too. I guess they could hold a pen.”

“I’ve heard that name before,” Laura said. “Akolateronim is a known scholar who deals with the theory behind magic. Nobody knew who he was… but maybe you just found out.”

“It did seem intelligent.”

“Most Watchers are. Maybe it was stuck being this dungeon’s caretaker and spent its time researching magic… In fact, I suspect it ghost-wrote a few books for Arakataron. Many people suspected that Akolateronim was the Archmage’s pen name due to them writing similarly… and also, you know, the absurd naming sense.”

“There was a large library in the eye’s room,” Jerry said. “So maybe.”

“Or maybe it adored the real Akolateronim and was just using his name.”

“A large library, you say, Master,” Boney mused. “Filled with precious books, no doubt. But you only took this Introduction to Necromancy?”

“Yes. I’ll read it as soon as I can.” Jerry looked back in confusion. “Why?”

“Nevermind…”

“We reached the exit!” a shout came from up ahead; it was Horace. “Is the outside safe, Jerry?”

“Yep.”

Without much care, they burst into the light and climbed the ladder to the surface. It creaked under Headless’s weight but held. Axehand and Horace simply jumped up.

“Oh, wow,” Jerry said, shielding his eyes. The natural, ever-present illumination of the Mists of Death wasn’t much, but it was blinding compared to the dark maze. “Our airship looks so cool.”

The airship lounged on the remains of the black ziggurat. Its brown hull, white sails, and red balloon cut a striking contrast against the black Mists. The Akshiks had done a great job repairing it; they’d even polished the wood until it shone, restoring the airship to its former glory.

“It does,” Laura agreed. “Do you think we should give it a name?”

Jerry’s eyes were instantly filled with stars.

“How didn’t I think of that? Of course we should!”

“Everyone!” Marcus waved from the deck. “Come on board, we need to leave!”

They ran to the ship while Jerry counted names on his fingers: “Dolly, Roger, Merry, Airshippy, Ballooney…”

Boney’s eye sockets were increasingly filled with despair the more he listened. “How about we leave the naming for later, Master? We can brainstorm when we have time.”

“Okay, but we need a temporary name! We can’t have Arakataron taken down by a nameless vessel!”

“How about Freedom?” Laura suggested.

Jerry, after squinting at her, replied, “Not bad. I prefer Airshippy, but… okay. Freedom it is!”

Boney heaved a secret sigh of relief. “Good. Now we can⁠—”

“Billies, we must paint the name on the side!”

“Jerry!”

“Jerry!”

“Master!”

“Jerry!” Jerry exclaimed himself, looking around. He laughed. “Okay, okay, I’m just joking. We have a job to do.”

Everyone climbed the ramp, and with a torrent of orders from the captain—Marcus—the airship slowly took off. The ziggurat below them got smaller as they rose.

“We made it…” said Laura, releasing a deep sigh. “Arakataron’s reinforcements haven’t arrived yet… Do you think he didn’t send any?”

“Maybe he’s scared,” Jerry said. Boney flexed his nonexistent biceps.

“Why do you believe that?” Horace asked, approaching them.

“It sounds ridiculous,” Laura said, “but maybe he is scared of us. I mean, Jerry declared war on the entire Wizard Order, and his strength is unknown, so maybe Arakataron doesn’t want to split his forces.”

“Would an Archmage fear an ordinary wizard?”

“No… but Arakataron never leaves the Mists. Perhaps his job here is so intense that he can’t spare any attention—or maybe he just didn’t bother.”

Jerry stepped in, “Let’s keep Birb close to ground level as we fly. If the reinforcements were just late, we’ll run into them.”

“I guess… and, if we don’t, we can reconsider the plan.”

“I must slay that Archmage no matter what.” Horace’s eyes were sharp. “I have a duty to my tribe. I will either succeed or die trying.”

Jerry and Laura exchanged glances. Jerry shrugged. “Well, let’s get there first, and we’ll discuss this again.”

“Yes…” Laura agreed. “I don’t really think Arakataron would be scared of us.”

Jerry smirked. “But did you see Boney’s biceps?”

“Yes, they’re amazing. Boney should battle in the front row.”

“Of course!”

“Master…” The skeleton’s bone jaw clacked. “I want to stay by your side and keep you safe, Master.”

“You can keep me safe by killing our enemies.”

“Not to worry.” Horace patted the skeleton’s shoulder. “I will tie some arrows around you to make you a hedgehog. Arakataron will soil his skeletal pants.”

“We can throw you at him from midair,” Marcus added. “He’ll never see it coming.”

“No!” Boney looked around. “Save me, Master!”

Jerry grabbed his shoulder and looked him in the eye sockets. “You will die a warrior, Boney. Be proud.”

The skeleton fell to his knees, then cried out toward the sky, “Nooo!”

Everyone had a good laugh, and the airship flew directly at one of the most dangerous people in the world. Jerry could sense the ripples of his ritual.

The airship was high in the air, flying through spotless darkness. Birb was lower, at an elevation where it could barely see the ground while not being visible itself—it was, after all, just a small bird.

Half an hour later, Birb spotted a dozen plate-armored figures crossing the terrain at tremendous speed. Jerry let everyone know, and their eyes twinkled.

Arakataron had fallen for it. He was defenseless—and they were coming.

79

A LAKE MADE OF DEATH

The core area of the Mists of Death was a broad valley surrounded by rolling hills. The mists from all around slithered towards here, slowly at first and then faster, distilling their very essence into the valley. Death energy covered the ground in layers, dense enough to turn liquid, forming a black lake a mile across and covered in the thickest mist they’d seen so far.

This lake was dotted by stone islands ranging in size from a table to a courtyard, close enough that people could jump from one to the next and walk across the water. They were like lily pads on a normal lake, except not particularly flat and not as susceptible to sinking.

The group observed the lake from its shores. They had tried flying over the valley, but the rolling death energy created winds so chaotic that Marcus deemed the attempt too risky. Therefore, they left the airship—Freedom—at the entrance of the valley and stealthily approached on foot.

They did not expect a lake made of death.

“This looks dangerous,” Horace said.

Jerry squatted at the lake’s edge and squinted at the black water.

“Wanna hear something funny?” he said. “I don’t think I can survive that.”

“The water?”

“Yes. I can handle it for some time, but this is liquid death energy. Even undead will rot away inside it.”

“Liquid death energy!” Marcus’s eyes widened. “I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

“Neither have I,” Jerry replied, shrugging as he stood. “To be fair, I don’t think it exists anywhere else in the world.”

Laura crossed her arms. “The wood nettle potion can’t save us from this, triple dosage or not.”

“From the lake? Not a chance. However, the air above it isn’t much different than the rest of the Mists. A bit windy, sure, but fine otherwise. The mist is sucked into the lake as soon as it approaches.” Jerry looked straight ahead, his eyes cutting through the dark haze. He could only see a hundred feet away.

“Which makes no sense, by the way,” Laura said. “I thought the entire area of the Mists expelled death energy. The mist should be exiting the lake, not entering.”

“I’m just telling you what I see.” Jerry shrugged again. “The death energy falls into the lake and disappears.”

“That’s weird.”

“We should get going, Master. Allow me,” Boney said, approaching Jerry. He squatted and dipped a finger into the lake, only to remove it a moment later. “Yes, this is dangerous. Look; only the bone is left.”

“Do you think Arakataron is in the middle of the lake?” Laura asked, ignoring Boney.

“Absolutely. He’s an Archmage necromancer; where else would he possibly be?”

“Inside the lake.”

“Oh.” Everyone looked at each other. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to find out,” Jerry cocluded.

Axehand was not participating in the conversation. He was already standing on the first stone island, gloating at his bravery. As everyone was talking, he jumped to the next one, then the next. They were a bit rocky, like shorn-off mountaintops, but anyone could walk on them.

When nothing bad happened, Axehand raised an axe in triumph.

“What are these islands, anyway?” Jerry asked. “Who put so much stone inside a lake?”

“Death energy has corrosive properties,” Laura explained. “If I had to guess, this wasn’t always a lake. The death energy corroded the soil and formed a crater for itself, but stone is impervious to it. The islands we see here should extend to the bottom, however deep that is.”

The next question was, naturally, how deep was it? Jerry grabbed a random long stick from the ground and stuck it in a few times, nodding. “Mhm. It’s only a foot here, but probably gets deeper as we go. The lake bottom should be shaped like a crater, as Laura said.”

“Of course. However, these stone islands are so many it’s suspicious… Was this area full of stone formations?”

“This place was called the Valley of Kings. It was known for its rocky terrain,” Horace explained.

Marcus’s eyes twinkled. His head snapped around fast.

“Valley of Kings!” he shouted out of the blue. Boney jumped, grabbed his ribcage, and muttered something about a fortunate lack of bowels; Marcus didn’t care. He retrieved a little blue notebook from his inner jacket and flipped through the pages. “This is the place I’m looking for! I knew it was somewhere in the Mists, but I never imagined it would be dead center!”

Boney chuckled. “Nice one.”

“This is no time for jokes, Boney,” Marcus retorted.

“Oh, silly me. I saw you guys talking for half an hour and thought we were chilling.”

“Well, if the treasure was here, it’s gone now.” Jerry laughed. “Unless you want to dive in and scavenge the taels one by one.”

“Not necessarily.” Marcus’s eyes twinkled again. “According to my notes, the treasure is entombed in a crown-shaped stone formation—and, as Laura said, stone is impervious to death energy.”

“Oh?” Horace raised a brow. “How very fortunate. What kind of treasure is that, anyway?”

Though he had become a part of their group, Marcus was reluctant to reveal more things than needed. Laura didn’t know all the details either. After all, the location of Dorman’s treasure was world-shaking information!

“Let’s talk about this later,” Marcus quickly dodged the question. “Just keep an eye out for any rocks shaped as a crown. They should be tall, so they probably stick outside the lake, at least a little bit. And, in any case, we can’t search for treasure with a hostile Archmage around. Let’s go get rid of him!”

The Billies released a combined roar, supporting him. Horace gave Marcus a deep glance but didn’t comment further.

Marcus’s mood had gone up at the thought of treasure. He was now battle-ready, and his eyes were twin taels.

Laura, by contrast, frowned as she gazed over the dark waters.

“Isn’t this a bit risky?” she asked. “A single misstep and we’ll be poisoned… Remember, Marcus, the two of us are living.”

“Nonsense. Opportunities always come with risks. What are we, cowards?” He laughed rowdily, enduring Laura’s icy stare like it was nothing. “Come on, let’s go already! Treasure’s waiting!”

“Shouldn’t we at least have a plan?” she tried again.

“I do have a plan,” Horace said. “It’s called, my bow.”

Axehand grunted in agreement from where he stood, raising his two axes, and Marcus’s eyes remained tael-shaped.

Jerry laughed. “I guess we’ll improvise,” he said.

“What Master means to say,” Boney intervened, “is that we must hurry, or the death knights we distracted before will have time to return. Moreover, since we’re forced to go in blind, what plan could we have? Even Birb can’t scout freely in there, or it might be spotted.”

“It can try,” Laura said.

“So can you, but I don’t see you going.”

Her sigh was full of irritation. “Fine. Let’s just do our best not to fall off.”

“Of course. We would hate to lose you,” Boney said with a cluckle—his signature combination of chuckling and bone jaw clacking. She looked at him emptily before mustering her courage and stepping on the first stone island, cutting off Marcus.

“Hey!” he yelled.

She smiled. “Ladies first.”

And so, slowly but surely, the entire group started jumping from stone to stone across the lake like children. They were fourteen in total, including the flying Birb, so they created quite a spectacle—only the circus music was missing, but Boney was under strict instructions to keep that unfurling stick in his pants.

Some stones were flatter than others. Some were easy to pass and some difficult, and Jerry even saw a single rock which towered high and stood alone like a proud hill. They didn’t find the crown shape Marcus was looking for, unfortunately, but the proud rock was a pleasant landmark.

Of the entire group, the Billies were undoubtedly the most relaxed, followed by Horace. These five climbed any stones and jumped from island to island as casually as taking a stroll. They made it look easy. It profoundly irritated Axehand, whose bulk didn’t let him follow their pace, as well as Marcus, whose excitement waned at the sight of the Billies’ antics.

“Take it easy, boys!” he warned them. “There’s no need to rush. You might fall off.”

They ignored him, and Billy One even did a handstand. Marcus scowled.

Laura laughed beside him. “Boys will be boys. Relax; they can handle it.”

“They shouldn’t ignore me,” he grumbled. “I’m the captain!”

“And where’s your ship, Captain?”

“Resting. She flew a long way.”

“She?”

“She.”

Her confused gaze met Marcus’s steady one.

“Look!” Jerry exclaimed, pointing at the dark water. “There’s fish!”

“Fish?”

The four of them—the three humans and Boney were bringing up the rear—stopped and looked.

“Oh!” Laura’s voice jumped. “There’s fishes!”

A few white shapes could barely be seen in the dark waters, swimming from side to side and slowly gathering near Jerry. There were five of them, and they seemed to belong to different species, ranging from pinky-sized to ones as long as Jerry’s forearm.

“Look at them, all white and glowing,” Jerry said with pride. “They must be very brave to survive in all this death energy.”

“Wait, are they transparent?” Marcus asked. “I can see the white glow of a fish through another fish.”

They all looked carefully. “You’re right,” Jerry replied. “I wonder if I could adopt one.”

His soul reached out, and he instantly exclaimed in surprise.

“What is it?” Laura asked.

“These things aren’t fish!” Jerry said, full of excitement. “They’re souls!”

“Souls?”

“Yeah. They’ve lost their bodies, but the death energy here keeps them alive. How peculiar.”

“Wait, so these are the souls of everyone who died in this lake?”

“Maybe even the entire Mists of Death.” Jerry scratched his head. “The thick death energy maintains the souls and carries them along as it flows to this lake… Here, they do not weaken with time, and they’re forced to aimlessly wander these dark waters in eternity, losing all their memories and turning into fish…”

“So, ghost fish,” Boney concluded. “Creepy.”

“You’re a ghost too, just trapped in a skeletal vessel.”

“Yes, I’m creepy too.”

“Do you think they can hurt us?” Marcus asked, looking at the seemingly harmless fish which quickly lost interest and wandered away.

“Probably,” Jerry replied, “but they don’t have the aggressiveness of undead. I don’t think they’ll try anything unless we attack first. Even if they do, I can easily extinguish these little ones. The stronger the soul, the larger the fish, so we’re going to be just fine unless there are whales hiding in the depths.”

“I think I’ll stick by your side,” Laura said.

“Me too,” Marcus and Boney quickly agreed.

Jerry laughed.

“Are you coming?” Horace’s voice drifted over from atop a tall rock, his form barely visible through the Mists. “We’re waiting for you.”

“Coming, coming.” Jerry laughed again, running and jumping to a slightly faraway stone. They weren’t always located close to each other, but thankfully, everyone wore well-made shoes that offered good grip.

The lake was large, and they were slow.

As time passed, the bantering died down and was replaced by silence. Everyone was nervous. The shores had long disappeared from their vision, giving the impression that the lake was endless in all directions. By now, only Jerry knew the way to the center, as he could sense a large amount of death energy flowing there.

The group was gradually approaching the Archmage, and they were all stressed and jumpy.

“Stop,” Jerry whispered, brows furrowed, and everyone froze. “Birb found enemies,” he whispered again, closing his eyes and reopening them shortly. “Long limbs, plate armor. It’s a death knight like the one we fought at Horace’s tribe.”

“There was another?” Marcus’s eyes widened.

“We’re talking about an Archmage,” Laura hissed. “He’s not stupid to send all his forces at the dungeon. He must have kept some as backup… but how many could they be?”

Jerry narrowed his eyes. “He sent twelve at the dungeon, as Birb saw, and I doubt anyone can support much more than that, Archmage or not.”

“Is it approaching?” Horace asked sharply.

Jerry once again closed his eyes, wobbled a bit, then reopened them. “Not really. It’s moving perpendicular to us, three hundred feet ahead. We’ll be fine if we just wait.”

Everyone nodded.

A few moments later, Jerry spoke again, “It’s gone.”

“Good. Let’s go, and be careful, everyone; we’ve entered their patrol radius,” Marcus said.

The group restarted, this time deathly quiet. Birb located two more death knights, each walking by itself, and the group was growing more worried by the minute. Just how many were there?

Due to Birb’s vigilance, they approached Arakataron’s location to the point where Jerry felt stifled. The quantity of death energy heading there was insane; it was so large, in fact, that a strong wind now blew at the group’s back, stopping occasionally like a giant breathing on their necks.

The thought was humbling. Jerry gulped as he kept going.

A moment later, he raised a hand. “We’re here,” he whispered. Everyone looked around but could only see the same mists, black water, and stones they’d been seeing all along.

Of course, nobody doubted Jerry.

“Somebody hold me, and be vigilant,” was all he said before closing his eyes. His body wobbled and fell to the side—thankfully, Boney was there to catch him.

“You’re heavy, Master…” he panted. “Have you ever heard of dieting?”

Unfortunately, Jerry’s senses were already borrowing Birb’s.

He laid eyes on the center of the lake, and the shock was so great that his concentration almost broke.

80

AMBUSHING AN ARCHMAGE

A colossal column of black light rose from the lake’s depths to the sky. It was wide enough to fit two people with arms extended, and the mist churned where it passed, swirling around it like a vortex. In fact, the column furiously absorbed the mist, pushing it downward like a direct funnel from the sky to the bottom of the lake. There was only water below the black light, but a stone island extended in a ring around it, just outside the column’s radius, as if pierced down the middle.

Sickly green lines rose against that flow like short ribbons, each at a different speed, while the dark water frothed and seethed. The column produced a low humming, a sound which shook the air and made the observer’s eyes and soul waver. It felt ancient and magical beyond belief.

Jerry only inspected the column for a second before his gaze was drawn to the robed form floating inside it. A thin mustache stretched from either side of its skull, but Jerry knew this was no skeleton. It was a lich; Arakataron.

The Archmage was absorbed in his ritual, with a guardian standing before the column. It was a normal-sized, humanoid figure clad in dark plate armor, with the opening of its helmet constantly releasing a thick black mist. It held a greatsword, and being Arakataron’s only guard spoke volumes about its strength.

Jerry was glad he could not use his soul perception through Birb. The sheer quantity of death energy here was staggering, and whatever Arakataron was doing was so beyond Jerry’s league that his mind hurt just imagining it. His soul trembled by being near that column.

What the hell is that? Jerry wondered. What exactly is he trying to do!

There was frightening power at play here. The amount of death energy that dove into the lake each second was equal to Jerry’s entire capacity, and Arakataron had been at it for decades. What kind of undead was the Archmage trying to create? What beast had they provoked?

Jerry was floored. He retracted his senses from Birb and sat down on the stone island.

“Are you okay?” Laura kneeled beside him with worry. “What happened? You’re pale and sweating.”

Jerry tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t form the words.

“By Manna, Jerry, you’re trembling!” Marcus grabbed his wrist. “What the hell did you see?”

Jerry gulped, slowly regaining himself. It wasn’t that he was weak of will; as a necromancer, he was sensitive to death energy, and the amount he saw was enough to send his soul reeling.

The highly concentrated death energy he’d been sensing so far was only the tiny remnants escaping the column. If not for Birb, he would have had no idea what really hid in the mist.

Jerry gulped again. “I saw Arakataron. He’s feeding tremendous amounts of death energy into the lake. Whatever he’s doing, it’s terrifying.”

“Okay. What does that mean for us?” Horace asked.

“I have no idea.”

“If it doesn’t directly affect us, let’s keep going. Don’t get cold feet now.”

Jerry stared at him. “Arakataron is funneling enough energy to create a dozen Axehands per minute. He’s been doing that for decades. You tell me if it affects us.”

To the side, Laura fell in deep thought.

Marcus frowned. “Are you suggesting we run away?”

“I have a duty!” Horace said.

Jerry shook his head. “I don’t know… But, if we choose to attack him, we must kill him instantly. A speck of what he’s creating will be enough to destroy us all ten times over.”

“That’s fine by me.” Horace nodded.

Axehand grunted. The crimson flames in his eye sockets revealed equal parts excitement and caution.

Marcus shrugged. “Best I can do is throw a stone at him. You guys will have to do the heavy lifting.”

Jerry, Axehand, and Horace looked at each other. They nodded. Each of the three had considerable power, and if they ambushed someone together, even an Archmage would have a hard time defending.

“What about you, Laura?” Jerry turned to her. She was still thinking, and her thin brows fluttered as she discarded one idea after another.

“I can support you, but I have no idea what Arakataron is doing. I’ve never heard of anything that needs this much power—even skeletal dragons wouldn’t be this hard to raise. I thought Arakataron was amplifying the Curse or something, but Jerry says he’s drawing energy instead… Is his ritual unrelated to the Curse? I have no idea what’s happening anymore…”

Her eyes were dazed, her belief wavering.

Jerry had already recovered and stood up. Hearing her doubts, he placed a hand on her shoulder and said, “It’s okay. You don’t need to know everything. We’ll figure it out or die trying, but we don’t have much to lose anyway.” He smiled, and his words cut through the haze in Laura’s mind like a ray of morning sun.

She couldn’t help but smile back. “Right,” she agreed, standing up. “How do we do this?”

Everyone looked at Jerry, who described what he saw in more detail.

“That’s good!” Laura’s eyes brightened. “His spiritual sense will be severely hampered inside that column. He won’t sense us coming.”

“I agree,” Horace said. “Arakataron sounds defenseless. I think the best we can do is circle around the ritual without being seen to attack from behind, where that mist-face-warrior can’t stop us. We throw arrows, axes, mental attacks, and water all at once, and the Archmage is dead. I don’t care how strong his magic is, he cannot survive a full-power sneak attack from all of us.”

Jerry perked up. “Wait a moment. We found his location, lured away most of his death knights, snuck up on him, and are about to ambush him while he’s distracted… Is our entire plan so far working out!”

Boney chuckled darkly. “Oh yeah, it’s all coming together.”

“Don’t count your eggs yet,” Marcus warned them. “The hardest part is still ahead of us, and there’s no guarantee things will work out. Archmages are Archmages for a reason; they aren’t weak.”

Laura nodded. “Anything could go wrong. However, I believe our chances are as high as they could be.”

Everyone agreed. “Let’s go,” Jerry said. “Birb will lead the way.”

They fell into silence again. The entire group jumped from stone to stone as stealthily as they could, following Jerry as they took the long way around the ritual. They almost ran into a few more patrols, but Birb’s sharp eyes and timely warnings let them avoid all danger.

Incidentally, the patrols weren’t just death knights. There were also nine-foot-tall monstrosities made of several human bodies stitched together; a kind of abomination Jerry had only seen on the Damn Wall, and even then, he’d only seen them by proxy. At this proximity, their warped souls sent chills down his spine.

“Aren’t there too many death knights?” Horace asked as they walked. “I thought we’d distracted a dozen.”

“Apparently, he has another dozen,” Laura replied heavily. She’d entered battle mode, and her words were sharp. “It changes nothing. If we kill Arakataron, they will all turn into uncoordinated wild undead, and we’ll probably manage to escape.”

“But shouldn’t these death knights be gathered around him? Why spread them out and make himself vulnerable?”

Laura gave him a deep glance. “Maybe he thinks the mist-face is enough… or, maybe, this is all a trap. If he takes us seriously.”

Thankfully, the heavy mist dampened all sound, letting the oversized group wade through the patrols successfully. They made it to the other side of the lake, then Jerry directed them back toward the ritual. Birb confirmed the mist-face-warrior hadn’t moved—it was still on the side facing the dungeon, from where they were expected to come.

Only mist stood between them and Arakataron now. Everyone drew sharp breaths as Jerry nodded.

Axehand took a deep gulp from his flask, letting the wine drip down his ribcage and onto the stone. He then crouched, ready to sprint, and his entire body released red smoke—courtesy of Jerry. Horace nocked three arrows against his bowstring, keeping it slightly taut. Laura summoned all the water from her flask and even conjured some extra, preparing a full-power water jet. Headless gripped his halberd and climbed on Boboar.

Jerry sharpened himself. He brought his energy expenditure to a minimum, letting his undead—except Axehand—support themselves for a bit. He then split his magic reserves into two parts; one would overcharge Axehand, and the other would fuel a full-power mental bash into Arakataron’s defenses. He didn’t hope to overpower the Archmage, only daze him for a moment.

As for everyone else, they were on the lookout for patrols and to assist however needed. Their power was a drop in the bucket compared to their stronger companions, and their speed wasn’t enough to act in tandem with the ambush. They would handle the retreat.

Everyone shared the same morbid thought. They were strong, but they had no way to estimate an Archmage’s power. They could only do their best.

They saw battle in each other’s eyes and knew they were ready.

They advanced as one, with Jerry at the front. His arm was raised, his eyes squinting at the mist. His soul still reeled from the sheer amount of power he’d witnessed, but it no longer affected him much. Let his instincts cry all they want; he was in control now.

Jerry’s steps slowed until they halted. A black haze was barely visible through the mist. He turned around to give a deep glance to everyone, then took a breath and lowered his hand.

The mist exploded.

Axehand barreled forth like a lumberjack from hell, his eyes burning so intensely that crimson flames spilled onto the rest of his skull. Boboar rushed after him with a tremendous oink, while Headless was spinning his halberd in preparation to strike.

Horace had pulled his bow taut and had one eye closed as he waited—he wanted to synchronize his arrows with Axehand’s assault. Laura was equally prepared to launch her strongest water jet, while Jerry’s soul loomed behind his undead like an invisible cloud.

Jerry felt confident. Several sure-kill attacks would reach Arakataron at once, and he was completely unprepared. To this point, he hadn’t even reacted. Only after Axehand crossed half the distance—barely a second before impact—did he turn his head. Yellow light shone in his eye sockets, and just their sight enveloped Jerry in a heavy pressure.

However, he persisted. His attack only had to momentarily stall the enemy; it wasn’t the killing blow.

A bowstring’s sharp twang later, said killing blow was unleashed from Jerry’s right. The sound of pressure getting violently released came from his left as a beam of water followed the three arrows. At the same time, Axehand raised his axe at Arakataron.

The Archmage’s eye-flames flickered. Jerry’s heart was gripped by black snakes of worry. Axehand hacked down.

The arrows, axe, and water entered the death column, only a few steps away from Arakataron, and it was like the weight of the world fell on them. The column’s pressure was far stronger than its slow flow indicated.

The arrows dipped down sharply, flying below Arakataron’s cross-legged form. The water jet did the same. Axehand’s arm trembled as it fell too, only to be stopped midway by his herculean strength. He kept rushing, heedless of the consequences, and jumped from the stone island to over the lake, where Arakataron floated.

Boboar screeched to a halt, almost throwing Headless off, and the latter tried to stab Arakataron from outside the column only for the halberd to be ripped from his hand and into the lake below. He barely managed to grab it again and pull it back.

Only Jerry’s attack remained intact, but as it slammed against Arakataron’s mind, it vanished like a stone thrown into the sea. Jerry lost his balance and gritted his teeth to avoid screaming; a good chunk of his mental energy had been ripped off and devoured.

Horace and Laura instantly aimed higher to counteract the column’s effects, but it was too late. They’d been spotted.

Arakataron’s eyes pulsed as he pushed out an open palm. Axehand’s axe cut toward that palm. The column of death obeyed Arakataron’s command, flowing sideways and tossing Axehand back with enough force to make him skip over several islands. He landed on his feet and charged right back at Arakataron.

The lich’s mustache formed a smile as he regarded them all.

“Did you really think this would work?” an amused, raspy voice rang out.

“Kinda, yeah,” Jerry replied, but Arakataron ignored him. Instead, his gaze fell on Laura.

“Arnold’s daughter,” he said slowly, then chuckled. “Girl, you’re as foolish as your parents. I’ll package you nicely and send you over.”

Laura gritted her teeth but didn’t have time to respond. Arakataron’s forces were already moving.

The mist-face warrior unsheathed his greatsword and reached Boboar and Headless in two strides, slashing out at them. Axehand jumped in between to protect them and hacked at the sword, aiming to overpower the enemy, but the force of the collision sent him flying. The mist-face-warrior snickered as it took a single step back.

At the same time, howls echoed from every direction as all of Arakataron’s undead entered a frenzy. They rushed over.

Jerry’s heart went cold. The ambush had failed, and all their powers were ineffective. They were too far from the top. Compared to an Archmage, they were nothing.

Nobody knew who said it first, but a single word rang in everyone’s ears: “RUN!”

81

BELIEVE IN THE ROCK

A howl cut through the mist, echoing from all directions at once. Another replied, followed by a third.

The entire group was sprinting away, spreading out a bit to avoid getting in each other’s way. Axehand glared at the mist-faced death knight who’d sent him flying. At least, he’d delayed enough for Boboar and Headless to escape.

That death knight was a terrifying opponent. Axehand could feel his body and soul boiling, and not just from Jerry’s overcharging. His gaze sharpened. The bones on his skull creaked and groaned as they morphed into a grin, and he stared right back at the mist-face, who only regarded him coldly. It clearly viewed Axehand as inferior, and though it had the strength to be arrogant, Axehand itched to rub that cockiness into its helmet.

He crouched and prepared to charge as everything else washed away. Lumberjacks were proud warriors; after all, the trees never win.

“Axehand! We need you!” A cry cut through Axehand’s battle haze. He turned to find his Master—Jerry—pleading with his gaze.

Axehand was his own master now. He was strong enough to attain freedom, if he wanted to, but still chose to follow Jerry out of respect. Now, Axehand’s mind was torn; on one hand, he wanted to fight, to kill or die.

On the other hand… Though Axehand was a proud, lonesome individual, he still regarded this group as his friends. They’d grown together and shared fond memories, be it relaxing around a campfire or triumphing over their enemies.

Axehand spared a final glance at the mist-face, grunting a challenge and a promise to return. He then decisively departed.

He had chosen to help. That would get him a good battle, too, anyway.

The mist-faced warrior watched Axehand’s departure coldly. It had received the challenge and ignored it. Its only goal was to protect its master; everything else was secondary.

Arakataron watched the group go as well, and he did not pursue. His purple flames took on a mocking tint and dimmed as he refocused on his ritual. They could not escape.

Axehand brought up the rear as everyone else jumped from island to island like deer. Their gazes flickered left and right, expecting danger to appear from anywhere. The howls kept coming.

The stone islands that previously hampered them were now as easy to cross as gaps in the sidewalk—adrenaline did wonderful things.

“Jerry, guide us!” Horace said, his eyes sharp as they surveyed the mist. Their hundred-foot eyesight range was neither short nor long. They were almost surrounded and relied on Birb for a way out, as it scouted possible routes—in this terrain, it could move much faster than them.

Of course, Birb was just a bird, and its instructions were relayed and translated through Jerry.

“Go right! That’s our only chance to⁠—”

Another howl filled their ears, closer this time, and an elongated form burst through the mist. It wore plate armor and had unnaturally long arms wielding a sword each.

The death knight crossed the stones easily and jumped at Marcus with abnormal speed. The treasure hunter almost fell back.

An axehead flashed at the last second. Axehand, already overcharged, smashed into the death knight and cleaved an entire arm off as he pushed it back. At the same time, two arrows flew precisely into the death knight’s eyes. It collapsed into the dark water.

Marcus was filled with relief which was instantly shattered when the mist burst with howls. Two blurry forms phased closer; one was a long-armed death knight, and the other a tall, grotesque caricature of a man sewn together from multiple bodies.

It sported two legs, two heads, and six arms, each wielding a weapon. Its body—two torsos stacked on top of each other—was bloated so much that its stitches burst with dark red blood, and every step it took caused pus to leak from several wounds.

Jerry had seen two of these monstrosities on the Damn Wall, but never up close. It was disturbing enough to make even him, a necromancer, frown—and that’s without mentioning everyone else.

Axehand and Horace fell on the enemies as the rest kept running. Blades and arrows whooshed through the air, heralding intense violence as they hacked through Arakataron’s army. Both the monstrosity and the death knight fell, but the battle had taken some time, and more enemies were catching up.

Moreover, the death knights had superhuman physicality, meaning they could run faster than Jerry and the rest of the group. More undead occasionally appeared from the left or right, stalling the group. Fortunately, Axehand and Horace were faster than the rest, so they could stay back to deal with the enemies then catch up.

“Wait!” Jerry shouted, screeching to a halt. “There are three death knights and five monstrosities between us and the shore. They’re working together!”

Everyone blanched. The patrols farthest away from them had time to group up and they were too strong to ignore. Even Axehand and Horace couldn’t deal with three death knights in a short amount of time.

“What do we do, Jerry?” Marcus asked, filled with tension.

“We can’t get through them!” Jerry shouted. “We’ll go around. Follow me!”

He dashed to the left, heading for a different part of the shore. Everyone followed, but a moment later, Jerry’s face went pale. “Crap! They’re shadowing us!”

If the grouped-up undead had headed directly for them, as Jerry anticipated, their diagonal route might have bypassed them. It wasn’t a foolproof plan, just one that could have worked.

Unfortunately, these undead were coordinated by someone smart. They didn’t blindly rush toward the group’s current location. They moved in parallel, keeping themselves between the group and the shore. They had to cross a longer distance, as they were circling around the lake at a wider radius, but they were faster anyway.

“We’re trapped! They’re somehow detecting our position, and they’re guarding the shore!” Jerry said.

“Well, guide us! What do we do?” Laura shouted.

“Keep running!”

They were out of options. All they could do was keep running around the lake and hope for something to happen.

For a few minutes, the group circled at a radius between the center and the shore, while a large squad of undead followed parallel to them and prevented them from escaping. At the same time, every other undead of Arakataron was chasing them, and enemies occasionally leaped through the mist.

Whenever that happened, Axehand and Horace were barely able to react in time.

“We need to do something, Jerry!” Marcus cried out. “I can’t run much longer!”

“Crap!” Jerry gritted his teeth. Birb was much faster than everyone else, giving Jerry a good overview of the situation, but he could still see no way out. Birb could survive, maybe Horace and Axehand too, but the rest were doomed.

Going back meant death.

Going forward meant death.

Standing still meant death.

Running around also meant death, just delayed. They couldn’t keep going in circles forever!

What other option was there?

None, Jerry thought, melancholy overtaking his tension. Oh, I will never see my chair again… I will never make more shoes… Maybe Arakataron will forgive us if I make him a wonderful pair. Does he even have feet?

Jerry hadn’t seen the lich’s feet through the robes, but it had to have a pair, right?

However, not everyone was equally resigned. “We must go underwater and swim to the shore!” Laura said, her eyes hardening.

“Are you insane? That’s suicide!” Marcus shouted back.

“Not immediately.”

“I don’t want to die!”

“There’s no other choice. If we jump in, we might still make it! If we stay, we’ll die for sure!”

“Argh!”

Marcus gritted his teeth so hard it hurt as he looked around. There has to be a way, he kept repeating in his head. There must be!

His gaze absorbed everything. The calm dark waters, the panicking forms of his companions, the random stone islands and the few taller rocks which pierced several feet into the air.

Dammit… He clenched his fists. This is all my fault. I never should have come here! Ugh! I had Dorman’s treasure in my grasp and chose to die instead. What an idiot!

It was ironic. Marcus had discovered the location of Dorman’s legendary treasure, but an evil Archmage just had to set up a lair there and make the entire area forbidden. The treasure was still here, probably, hidden inside one of the myriad rocks, and Marcus was destined to come close but never touch it…

Could Arakataron have the treasure already? he wondered before shaking his head. Could be a coincidence. It’s sealed in stone, after all; and what does Dorman’s gold have to do with an Archmage?

His eyes flashed. Marcus roared with laughter, surprising everyone else.

“Did you finally go insane?” Boney asked, shaking his head. “I saw it coming.”

“I found it!” Marcus yelled. “I found a tiny chance!”

“What chance?”

“The chance to survive!”

Surprise and elation shone in everyone’s eyes. They kept running, with a barrage of questions assaulting Marcus.

“The treasure is hidden inside these stones. It is a sealed, hollow space! If we can find it and reseal it after we get inside, we can escape the death energy for a while. We can hide underwater!”

Everyone was puzzled, then gradually, their eyes shone. It was a desperate plan, but if it worked… there was a chance! Escape was possible!

“What if Arakataron took the treasure already?” Laura asked. “What if that sealed space is no longer sealed?”

“Then we’re dead anyway!”

“You realize the chances of Arakataron randomly setting up shop near a treasure trove are nil, right? He has to know.”

“And we have to take a risk! Come on, Laura, work with me. Let’s fight for hope!”

“We need to find the crown-shaped stone formation!” Horace’s eyes flashed as he looked around. They’d covered a good part of the lake already but hadn’t spotted it yet. Maybe it wasn’t exactly as they imagined it. “What about the pierced island Arakataron floated over?”

“That was a donut, not a crown! Wait, I have a picture!”

Marcus scrambled to take out his notebook. His trembling hands sent a few trinkets of distant civilizations flying, but he couldn’t care less. He hurriedly flipped to a specific page, where he’d once copied the riddle of the pyramid in the Sea of Sands. “Look!”

Everyone burned the image into their minds; it wasn’t just crown-shaped rocks.

Two crowned humans held hands under a complex constellation, pointing down. Their arms formed a downward triangle, and Marcus pointed at it while hurriedly saying, “This means the Valley of Kings, where we are! Look lower!”

Under the kings’ hands lay a crown-shaped hill. A tall, slim rock stood in the middle, surrounded by a bunch of shorter, rounder ones at varied heights. A white bubble could be seen inside the base of the tall rock, containing a red X—the sign for treasure.

“We’re looking for this rock formation,” Marcus explained. “The treasure is sealed inside its base, which means it’s hollow. If we can create an opening to enter and patch it up quickly, we can survive there for a bit!”

“Won’t we run out of air?”

“Not immediately! It’s better than running out of blood!”

A crown-shaped stone formation? Jerry squeezed his mind and asked Birb, too. The two of them combined had seen over half of this lake, but nothing resembling a crown so far.

“We must keep looking!” he exclaimed. “Quick, let’s run in circles!”

“Wait.” Horace’s voice cut through their panic. His eyes focused on the notebook, and everyone was ready to burst from the tension.

“I know what this mean—” he said, but a sharp howl interrupted him. A long-armed form jumped out of the mist; it had sneaked up on them while they were distracted. It howled as it swung its greatsword at Headless. The zombie tried to block but flew backward from the impact.

The Billies were there to catch him, thankfully, but the death knight was upon them again. It brought its greatsword down on their heads.

Horace had no time to react. Axehand did.

His bulky form flew and crashed into the death knight, drawing him into a roll on a stone island. When they stopped at the very edge, Axehand was at the top. He rained axes on the enemy, who defended with all its might and even struck back some. Their attacks carved the stone before Axehand managed to bury an axe into the enemy’s helmet, destroying it instantly and tossing the body into the water.

He then accelerated to catch up to the others, who hadn’t stopped running.

Horace lowered his bow.

“Focus, Horace! Keep talking!” Laura cried out.

“I’m sorry for trying to save our lives.”

“I make snarky comebacks, you explain stuff!” Boney yelled. “You said ‘wait.’ You know something!”

“I do. We aren’t looking for a crown. We’re looking for just the middle rock.”

Marcus was quick to disagree. “That makes no sense. There is clearly a crown.”

“This place used to be a valley, not a lake. The shorter rocks could be under the surface. Only the middle one is certainly still poking out, surrounded by empty water over the other rocks. We’re looking for a tall, isolated rock, not a crown!”

Horace’s stare could cut through iron as he buried it deep into Marcus’s eyes, and the latter reeled. Jerry said, “I trust Horace! Let’s find the lone rock!”

“We already have.” The hunter chuckled. “It was there at the very start, as we entered the lake.”

Jerry’s eyes shone. Indeed, there had been an abnormally tall rock at the very start, standing upright and mocking them like the middle finger of foreshadowing.

However, since they were running circles around the lake, they were only a quarter away from their entrance spot. At least the rock was far enough away from the shore that they could reach it without fighting the death knights—probably.

Jerry grinned. If there was hope, the world was bright! “Let’s hurry!”

Horace nodded his determination, while Axehand grunted in approval as he snuck a sip from his flask. More howls assaulted them, as the death knights from behind were catching up, and the group accelerated again, sending burning stitches into Marcus’s and Laura’s ribs.

They were already exhausted, but they had to make it to the mysterious rock. The rock was their savior. They believed in the rock.

And, if Horace or Marcus were wrong, they would just die.

82

A SKY UNDER OUR FEET

Clashing blades and blood-chilling roars echoed through the Mists as Jerry jumped from stone island to stone island. The dark water was calm beneath his feet, only revealing the slightest of ripples despite the raging battle, while the group’s members shouted warnings at each other.

“Careful!” Marcus yelled as he stepped on a shaky stone.

“Horace!” Laura called out, and an arrow whistled by her ear to meet the monstrosity behind her. A moment later, an axe-wielding skeletal form fell on the monstrosity, tearing it apart.

A grunt escaped Axehand’s skull as his crimson eye-flames darted left and right, scanning for the next opponent. He and Horace were covering the retreat, taking care of any enemies that dared approach.

The monstrosities were fine. Either could easily handle them. The real problem was the death knights, who needed both Axehand’s and Horace’s focus or they could survive long enough to drag someone down—they weren’t much weaker than a non-overcharged Axehand.

The enemies grew wary of casualties after some point. Instead of rushing in one or two at a time and getting butchered, they reverted to running parallel to the group again. Their movements showed they were aware of each other’s positions as they wove a net, trying to flank and surround them. The net tightened.

This development should have been disastrous, but it was a blessing in disguise. Jerry’s group didn’t care about getting surrounded; they only cared about making it to the damn rock.

The battle had entered a standstill, but creepy roars still came from the left, right, and behind them. Marcus and Laura had legs of lead and throbbing temples. They could barely keep going anymore.

A single misstep could lead to ruin. A single accident could become a disaster. Twice, they almost fell but someone caught them. The roars were closing in, from every direction at once except for directly ahead.

Birb had located the rock. They just had to get there in time.

A lone gray rock stood tall over the dark waters, proudly overlooking the hunt before it. The moment they saw it, everyone was invigorated. Soon, they were only two stone islands away.

The mist roiled and parted. Several forms surrounded them, death knights and monstrosities alike, and they numbered more than a dozen. Axehand and Horace had already destroyed four death knights, but there were another four present, plus the three from the outer lake squad. There were also nine monstrosities.

When Jerry and company lured a dozen death knights away, they’d thought themselves smart. In truth, Arakataron had only spared that force because he didn’t need it. He had another dozen, as well as the monstrosities, the mist-face warrior, and most importantly, himself.

The death knights howled in triumph and prepared to tear these invaders apart, except they didn’t know they were too late. The rock was already very close.

“Now, everyone!” Jerry yelled. “Swim to the shore!”

It was a lie, of course. Everyone jumped into the water and headed for the rock, escaping the sight of the undead.

The water splashed, and Jerry’s eyes widened from the cold. It wasn’t just temperature, either.

Even as a necromancer—and, therefore, an undead—such thick concentration of death energy was enough to send chills down his spine and make him feel ill.

It was like diving into a starless night.

Distorted sounds reached his ears, signifying that the others had dived as well. Jerry turned around on instinct.

Surprisingly, he could see. The lake’s surface was pitch-black, but it got brighter once you got past that. Jerry couldn’t tell where the illumination came from, but he was glad for it.

His eyes witnessed an infinite void. His friends floated in nothingness, and the darkness stretched endlessly below, creating the illusion that this lake had no bottom. A few rocks could be seen in the background, but Jerry didn’t pay too much attention, instead focusing on Marcus and Laura.

The moment they dove, both went pale. Their eyes widened to the extreme and they started shivering, completely unable to handle the invasive death energy. Jerry channeled his magic, trying to force the energy away from them, but it was like using his hands to push the rain.

We must hurry, he realized. His own body was being slowly corroded. He could endure for some minutes. Marcus and Laura couldn’t.

Filled with haste, Jerry searched for the proud rock—a lone obelisk rising from depths untold. He also found something else, and he spat out a bunch of bubbles in shock.

There was a creature staring at him. It was gray and at least ten feet tall, while its eyes were hollow. Jerry froze in shock until he understood what he was looking at. It was a statue, and it wasn’t alone.

The many stone islands were the peaks of stone formations reaching all the way from the bottom to the surface of the lake. Their lower segments weren’t visible from above the water, but now that Jerry was submerged, he could see that all those islands weren’t just stone formations. Every single one of them was an intricately carved statue.

Some resembled humans. Others were also humanoid but with completely wrong proportions—wide bodies, tall faces—or even extra limbs. There were some that had feathers or gills, resembling species completely alien.

Each one of these statues was hunched and held its hands high as if supporting the entire sky on its shoulders, with said sky being the stone islands that Jerry and company had been treading on. Each was crafted to a lifelike degree, and each was roughly as tall as two men.

Jerry was surrounded by stone giants holding up the ground he used to walk on. It was awe-inspiring. He lost himself for a second, as did everyone else, and only returned to reality when a white fish approached his face and gazed at him curiously.

Crap!

He refocused on the proud rock. This was the only rock not carved into a statue, which was suspicious, but Jerry didn’t have the time to consider mysteries. They needed to get inside the treasure room and seal it back up before Marcus and Laura rotted away—hopefully, there would be enough air to breathe.

Indeed, the surrounding rocks were shorter than the lone one, and vaguely formed a crown around it.

Axehand! He sent through their mental link, and the skeleton snapped out of his reverie with a grunt. He knew what he had to do. His axes worked like paddles as he propelled himself forward, and the moment he reached the stone’s lower half, he lightly tapped against it. Then, realizing he couldn’t hear the echo underwater, he gave up and simply smashed an axe into it.

The impact was dampened by the water, yet Axehand flew backward anyway. He quickly returned to find a head-sized hole in the rock, behind which lay a wide gap. Dark water flooded in already.

He’d found the hidden room.

What thick rock, Jerry thought, hope rekindling. Archmage or not, nobody’s seeing through it. Arakataron might have actually missed the treasure!

With quick strikes, Axehand widened the hole enough to squeeze himself through. Marcus and Laura were right behind him. They dove through the passage with the desperation of drowning, and everyone else followed as fast as they could. Jerry helped organize the undead, and he was the last to cross.

The moment he did, he fell a couple feet to the ground and landed on Headless.

“Oof,” he said. “Thanks, big guy.”

Headless made happy sounds as he kneeled on the floor, patting around himself. He was looking for his head, which he’d apparently lost in all the chaos.

Their problems weren’t over. Death energy flowed in freely from the gap behind them, dispersing into mist the moment it contacted the room’s stale air. Axehand was already at work. He stuck a stone pedestal into the opening, blocking it partly, and all the undead tore their clothes apart to try and close the gaps. Liquid death energy resembled water, but its flooding power was significantly less.

The mist thinned, and in a few moments, a poorly made patchwork of clothing covered most of the hole. Tendrils of mist still seeped through the cracks, but Laura’s water appeared and blocked what few gaps remained.

Everyone watched with bated breaths, but no new death energy entered.

“We did it!” Jerry exclaimed, and the rest burst into cheers. “Good job, everyone!”

The undead exchanged high-fives, smiles, and thumbs-up, while Marcus and Laura hugged themselves, still shivering.

“Are you okay, guys?”

“I’ll be fine,” Marcus managed to mutter, “just a little cold, that’s all.”

“Mhm.” Jerry simply nodded.

At the next moment, Marcus realized where he was and spontaneously recovered.

“Treasure!” he shouted, looking around wildly. Jerry looked the other way, to the stone wall separating them from the outside. He was interested in this Dorman’s treasure too, but those stone statues… Who made them? Why? Did it happen after the death lake was created, or was it just a spooky coincidence?

An unintelligible sound coming from Marcus’s throat made Jerry turn around. The treasure hunter finally managed to speak.

“Where the hell is the treasure!”

The stone room they found themselves in was quite simple, and to Marcus’s dismay, quite empty. Stone columns supported its low ceiling, while the entire room was circular with a diameter of only thirty feet. The only visible treasures were at the other side of the room, where three items lay on the ground.

One was a corpse. It was female and dressed in flowing robes, both they and the body perfectly preserved. Her skin was tanned, her long hair blonde, and her face angelic, as if a kind goddess that was only sleeping and could wake up at any moment—but she was very dead, as Jerry’s soul perception indicated. What really surprised Jerry wasn’t the corpse’s state, but the two wings jutting out from its back. This was a winged human!

“Master! I want wings too!” Boney exclaimed.

Jerry shook his head.

The second item was a tiny brown booklet haphazardly thrown on the ground. This was also well-preserved, but Jerry couldn’t read the title without going closer.

Finally, the third item was a half-black, half-white pearl which looked like a toy. Besides the interesting coloration, there was nothing special about it. Although, the moment Jerry’s eyes landed on the pearl, it arrested the entirety of his attention. His soul churned. His mind slowed. His heart forgot to beat—thank Desistos he was a necromancer.

Jerry’s mind told him this was just a pearl. His soul, on the other hand, told him to worship it.

“Master?” Boney shook Jerry out of his reverie. “I said, are you okay?”

Jerry blinked and shook his head.

With shaky steps, he ignored Boney and everything else as he paced for the pearl and grabbed it. His world exploded. Colors and notions of indescribable depth flowed through his mind. The stone walls became kaleidoscopes of endless mysteries. Complete ecstasy and the greatest horror overtook him at the same time.

Jerry had a certain degree of resistance against mental illusions and invasions, but before this pearl, he was like a newborn. In a flash, he witnessed the death of a million people, and he experienced each and every one of them personally; the transformations of the soul, how it grows and shrivels from the vicissitudes of life; a single death stretched over infinite moments, where every tiny change in the body is captured and magnified a thousand times.

Jerry’s world became a black-and-white spiral of mind-bending magnitude formed from endless tiny specks, each representing an entity on the level of Jerry.

Of course, Jerry’s mind could not comprehend these images. He could barely count to a hundred. He was frozen as the images flickered before his eyes, and his mind protected him by tuning everything out.

Suddenly, Jerry recovered, and he was still touching the pearl. Not a moment had passed. Everything was normal, and the pearl was unexpectedly warm to the touch, almost burning, even. Everyone was still talking excitedly behind him.

Jerry drew a cold breath because he felt so incredibly transparent. The pearl was staring at him. It had no eyes—it was just a pearl—but it was looking at him. Everything in Jerry was seen through, be it his soul, body, mind, or even the innermost desires and secrets not even he knew.

He was judged, and he was deemed worthy.

The pressure disappeared. The pearl cooled, and it was now just a pearl. Nobody would have guessed it was the most divine of items.

Jerry knew what the pearl was. There was only one thing it could be.

He turned around to find everyone approaching. “Hey guys, guess what,” he said, raising the pearl high with a smile. “I found the real Death Prism!”

Many jaws hit the floor.

83

THE LEGEND OF DORMAN

The Academy was a towering cathedral standing on a lonely hill in the western part of the Dead Lands. Besides being the headquarters of the Wizard Order, it also served as a place for wizards to gather, exchange knowledge and resources, and train their disciples.

For the members of the Wizard Order, it was a holy place. For everyone else, not so much.

Jericho looked around plainly. They were waiting in the outer courtyard, a wide expanse right in front of the Academy. A tall, dark wall surrounded them, with gargoyle statues surveilling them from each of its poles, while the cathedral’s impressive front dominated their sight and hid all view to the setting sun. One of the gargoyles scratched its chin.

As evening fell, the dark, imposing cathedral took on a sinister hue.

Mundane servants toured the outer courtyard, tending to wizards or taking care of the decorations. Death spirits joined them, looking decidedly more spirited in body but equally crushed in mind. Despite the Headmaster’s protective aura around the Academy, the Curse still found its way in, and all mundane servants were suffering.

Well, servants was a nice way to put it. Slaves was another. Jericho would pity them if he wasn’t a slave himself.

“You must belong to Herald Maccain,” a voice came from the side as a young man with sharp features approached. He was dressed in black, and on his shoulder stood a single dark feather. “My name is Gregor Ashon, and I admire your master. Help me get an audience.”

Jericho disdained to respond. Bogdanov, sitting on the ground behind him, couldn’t respond if he wanted to. Only Lela, the water spirit which completed Maccain’s current collection, spoke up. She was the most submissive bitch Jericho had ever seen—although, maybe all undead were supposed to be like that.

“Your appearance is our pleasure,” she said. “We will notify Master of your request.”

“Put in a good word, too.”

“Of course. Your wish is our command.”

Speak for yourself, Jericho thought, but didn’t say the words aloud. Retorting against wizards was forbidden in the Wizard Order, no matter how strong of an undead he was.

The young man walked away satisfied. Jericho’s growing irritation calmed slightly, but it was only temporary. Since they’d arrived at the Academy and Maccain left them here to visit the Headmaster, everyone was intent on using them to approach him.

It wasn’t a bad idea. Just annoying for Jericho, who couldn’t give a second shit about any of them. Moreover, most of these people were necromancers; the sworn enemies of his mother.

If only I still had my powers… he lamented.

Fortunately, they weren’t alone. There were several two-feather professors walking around, attracting some of the wandering one-feather students, and two more Heralds had arrived: an old man walking alone with his cane, and a young woman of extreme beauty surrounded by death knights. These death knights attracted a lot of aspiring social butterflies, but none were as responsive as Lela.

Once again, Jericho glared at her with irritation.

Maccain returned with a thoughtful expression. Jericho heaved a sigh of relief. As much as he hated the man, he at least deterred other wizards.

“Master,” Lela spoke up, “an audience has been requested by⁠—”

“I don’t care,” he cut her off, and she obediently shut up. “We’re leaving immediately. I got information on an abnormally strong wraith to the east. We must get her and return within three days.”

Jericho’s brows spasmed. Getting a new undead meant one of them would be abandoned. It couldn’t be Bogdanov; a cloud giant zombie was an incredibly prized possession. Plus, he’d just joined.

Me or Lela… He gazed at her. If she shared the thought, she didn’t show it.

“That’s wonderful, Master,” she spoke again. “The Headmaster recognized your greatness and summoned you here to give you that great undead!”

Her flattery worked often, but not this time.

“No, you stupid bitch,” Maccain spat back. “We just arrived early. Something big is about to happen, so there’s a Herald Summit in three days. That’s why we must hurry.”

“Maybe the Order will finally make its move, Master,” she replied, nonplussed.

“I hope so…” He gazed east. “But that is none of your business. We’re moving out.”

Lela fell silent. Bogdanov stood up, and Jericho followed wordlessly. The lesser wizards and slaves stepped aside where Maccain passed, their eyes filled with fear and respect, while the professors nodded.

Jericho didn’t care about any of them. He was calculating in his mind, and hope appeared in his chest. Since the master had rebutted Lela so harshly, she would probably be the one to go, right?

“Look, guys! I found the real Death Prism!”

Jerry raised the pearl with a proud smile, stopping everyone in their tracks. They gaped.

“The what?”

They knew what the Death Prism was. Horace had talked about it when describing the Curse’s origin. In fact, the fake Prism they’d destroyed was only a pale imitation of the real Death Prism.

Legends speak of five Prisms in the world, each corresponding to one school of magic—necromancy, biomancy, photomancy, pyromancy, hydromancy. These five Prisms were said to be the crystalized essence of the world’s magic, and little else was known about them.

Some said a Prism could make regular people into wizards. Others said it could instantly raise a wizard to the level of an Archmage. Others yet claimed that all magic in the world stemmed from the Prisms, and that destroying one would forever cut off that school of magic.

Whatever the truth was, everyone agreed that the Prisms were divine objects carrying unthinkable power. Of course, most people believed the Prisms were mere fables, but the pearl in Jerry’s hand seemed to disagree.

While recounting Granny’s information, Horace even described how the Wizard Order had gone to extreme lengths to locate the Death Prism, said to be in the northern parts of the continent, even going as far as to create the Curse in hopes of resonating with it. Despite their efforts, they had failed.

How pissed would Arakataron be to learn that the Prism was right under his nose the entire time?

“The Death Prism,” Jerry repeated, rotating the pearl before their eyes. “It’s this thingy here.”

“The Death Prism is not a thingy, Jerry,” Horace said, squinting at the pear. “And, if this really was it, I doubt you could hold it so casually.”

“Why not?”

“Because the Prism is supposed to be unobtainable. Only those recognized by magic—the Archmages—can claim it.”

“Well, I can too, and I’m pretty sure this is the real thing.”

Horace stared at Jerry, extending a hand. “May I?”

“Sure.”

Jerry put the pearl in Horace’s hand. “MOTHER—” A hoarse scream instantly left Horace’s mouth as he dropped to the ground and clutched his arm, letting the pearl roll away.

“Horace!”

“Are you okay?”

Everyone gathered around him. Dark veins popped on Horace’s pale forehead as he furiously gritted his teeth, his hand spasming like crazy, almost breaking off its own fingers.

Jerry watched with worry, then picked the pearl back up and stared at it in confusion.

“Holy shit,” Horace muttered weakly, finally relaxing. He lay on his back and spread his limbs while panting heavily. His forehead was drenched in sweat.

“Are you okay? What happened?” Laura asked.

“I don’t know…” Horace stayed still, gazing at the ceiling. “My entire body was on fire and my soul was pulled apart to the point of almost breaking.”

“By Hydra! That sounds awful!”

“…It was okay.”

Seeing that Horace was well enough to act proud, everyone looked back at Jerry—and, specifically, the pearl he held.

“Jerry,” Laura said slowly, “maybe you should put that thing down.”

“Right,” Marcus agreed. “It sounds very expensive, so be careful.” He then cowered under the gazes of Laura and every single one of Jerry’s undead. “I was joking…” he muttered.

Jerry didn’t mind; he even laughed a bit. “It’s fine. I think it likes me.”

“It’s a pearl, Jerry. It can’t like you.”

“Do you see me convulsing on the ground?”

Everyone glanced at Horace, who snorted. “I’m not convulsing.”

“Okay…” Laura still eyed the pearl warily but accepted Jerry’s words. “Can you explain, Jerry? What happened?”

“Well, I saw this pearl on the ground and thought it was very pretty, so I picked it up. The irresistible pull at my soul helped. Then, I saw a bunch of visions and became friends with the pearl.”

“You became friends with—” Marcus shook his head. “Can you explain properly, please? How do you know this is the Death Prism?”

“I saw a million lives wink out one by one and a construct of death larger than the sky. It was pretty clear at that point.”

“You saw what?”

“Yeah, it was a bit rough.” Jerry shrugged. “I think it’s a pretty cool pearl, you know? It’s friendly; just a bit weird, but then again, so am I! Maybe that’s why it likes me. I like it back.”

Laura weighed it with her gaze. No matter how she looked, it seemed like a normal, oddly-colored pearl. She shrugged. “It’s pretty,” she admitted.

“Bonding with treasure is a bad idea; I can tell you that by experience,” Marcus said

“That thing is dangerous,” Horace spat out as he carefully stood. He was still shaking a bit, but his eyes were sharp as they rested on the pearl. “It attacked me, and I could do nothing. You should stay away from it.”

Jerry shook his head. “We’re friends now. It won’t harm me.”

“It’s a pearl.”

“It’s the Death Prism.”

Horace grunted. Axehand grunted, too, not letting Horace hog his signature move. Through Jerry, he could sense that the pearl was a special, powerful, and aloof existence. He viewed it as a peer and nodded at it.

“So, you’re bonded with it, Master,” Boney said, and his excitement mounted. “Is it really as the legends say? Did it make you stronger!”

“Hmm.” Jerry frowned. “I don’t think so.”

“Maybe it’s broken.”

“I know the Death Prism is impressive and all, but can we talk about the corpse behind Jerry?” Horace said.

“Oh, right! It has wings!” Boney said.

“It better have some treasure too…” Marcus muttered to himself. He wouldn’t touch that pearl with a nine-foot pole, but he still owned a 99% share of the treasure!

I expected mountains of gold, Manna-dammit!

If Dorman’s treasure was only a notebook, a corpse, and a pearl he couldn’t even touch, Marcus would be seriously pissed.

Everyone crowded around the corpse and gave it a closer look. It was a woman with a pure face, golden locks for hair, and tanned skin. She wore a set of pristine white robes, and two wings spread out from her back, poking through deliberate holes in the fabric.

She sat cross-legged against the wall. With growing interest, Jerry noticed that her face was calm. How many people could die with such composure, especially when entombed alone?

Deep respect oozed from within his soul. He even felt a connection to her, as if the two of them were similar—but how could that be? The feeling resembled what he’d felt with Granny.

Was she also a necromancer?

“Wow,” Laura said breathlessly. “She seems almost magical…”

“Maybe it’s the wings,” Boney said. “I wonder, are her eyes magic as well?”

He gently raised one of her eyebrows and was met with an off-white color. Her iris was barely a different color than the sclera, producing a gaze that reached directly into the soul.

Despite that, she didn’t seem evil; just wise.

“I wonder who she was…” Marcus wondered aloud.

“Shelia Vanderful,” Jerry replied. Everyone stared at him. “What? It’s in her diary,” he said, raising the little brown notebook.

In their excitement, they’d almost forgotten about this notebook. “What else does it say?” They crowded around Jerry, who began reading. Only half the pages were filled—clearly, this woman’s life ended sooner than intended.

The information contained within was bountiful.

According to the notebook, Shelia Vanderful was a necromancer from the Cloud Sea—nobody present knew where that was. She’d grown up there and was supposed to live a peaceful life when an outsider showed up. He was a hero; strong, handsome, kind. He easily took care of the giants harassing Shelia’s tribe but accepted no reward. At the banquet held in his honor, his roaring laughter made clouds shake and hearts flutter. Shelia fell in love with this man but didn’t dare reveal her feelings. She didn’t feel worthy.

Unfortunately, that man was only passing by the Cloud Sea. Only a few weeks after his arrival, he departed again, and his figure was forever engraved in Shelia’s heart. She followed him. The outside world was forbidden to all tribespeople, but Shelia broke the rules, disowned herself from the tribe, and followed this mysterious, charming man into adventure. According to the diary, written by Shelia herself, the years that followed were the happiest period of her life.

The man’s name was Dorman.

When Jerry reached here, a series of exclamations rang out. Dorman! The legendary explorer! The mysterious person whose treasure had springboarded an entire profession! The one who’d lived and died during the Great Enigma!

Almost nothing was known about Dorman, and they held a diary written by one of his closest companions!

Of course, Marcus and Jerry already knew this place was connected to Dorman, but they didn’t expect this woman to be connected to him as well. After all, she seemed like she’d died yesterday!

They turned back to the diary, and everyone’s eyes burned as they hungered for more. The diary didn’t disappoint; it was a treasure trove of information.

Shelia followed Dorman for many years. They adventured throughout the world, and in their travels, a few more people chose to follow the shining beacon that was Dorman. They were six, at the end, each hailing from a completely different place. The writing didn’t offer details about these companions or their places of origin, but it indicated the existence of six different lands across the world.

“But there’s only three,” Marcus said hesitantly. “The King Continent, the Sea of Sands, and the Jewel Archipelago. Right?”

Laura shrugged. “Maybe she meant nations.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

In the end, this part wasn’t too important. They hungrily kept reading.

Dorman’s group traveled throughout the world, having crazy adventures. Shelia hadn’t recorded the details, but the gist of things was clear. They were strong, and tyrants existed everywhere; Dorman would liberate the people wherever they passed.

Their life was dangerous and exciting. It was full in every way. Shelia never revealed her feelings toward Dorman, who also never realized them, though everyone else knew. Love could not be hidden.

At this point, the contents of the diary took a sharp turn. Shelia’s entries became rarer.

The carefree days of Dorman’s group were coming to an end. During their adventures, they had collected the five Prisms and attained great power, which also brought great responsibility. They could no longer run free and wild across the land. Everyone looked up to them, and they were treated as kings. Shelia was clearly worried.

The Primordials, the greatest tyrants of all, took notice.

Jerry turned the page and found a gap. Many pages had been ripped off, leaving a single written one before the end. In this final page, Shelia claimed that she and the rest of her companions were tasked with scattering the five Prisms in specific locations around the world, one in each land, except for one.

And then, the diary simply ended, as had Shelia’s life. Jerry quickly flipped through the remaining empty pages, finding nothing. Just as his disappointment mounted, he reached the inner back cover, on which a riddle was carved:

Where the sun shines brightest, on the tallest peak,

In the helmet of the king is the Prism you seek.

“What a shitty cliffhanger!” Marcus grumbled. “What happened in the missing pages? What happened to Dorman? What about the Primordials? Why did Shelia die in this goddamn cave? What even are the Prisms? Where is Dorman’s real treasure? Argh!”

Laura chuckled. She, too, was intrigued but never cared much about history. “Think about it, Marcus; what treasure could be greater than a Prism?”

“Two Prisms,” Boney replied quickly.

“I can’t eat a Prism, can I?” The treasure hunter crossed his arms. “Magic my ass… I just want money!”

84

GOING FOR THE BIG FISH

An ancient corpse, a diary full of secret knowledge, the legendary Death Prism… This hidden cave contained treasures greater than anyone ever imagined—only Marcus was disappointed, as there were exactly zero taels to be found.

“Don’t worry, Marcus. I’ll compensate you,” Jerry said and laughed.

“You better!” The treasure hunter snorted. “I am entitled to ninety-nine percent of this treasure!”

“Good luck getting that Prism,” Horace said. “History is nice and all, but can we focus on the Archmage who’s out to get us?”

“You’re right,” Jerry agreed. “Those undead will be looking for us at the shores by now. We should surface and run in the opposite direction.”

“What if they’ve left guards above us?”

“Then, we run faster.”

Axehand grunted a chuckle. Boney shrugged. “Sure thing,” he said.

“And then what?” Laura said. “Marcus and I can’t run for long. Even if we escape the lake, the death knights will catch up to us.”

Horace said, “The airship is not⁠—”

“Freedom,” Jerry interrupted him with a smile. Horace sighed.

“Freedom is not far away,” he relented. “If we make it there and keep the death knights at bay for long enough, you can escape.”

“That’s—wait. ‘You?’”

“Yes, you. I will stay.” Horace held his head high in pride.

“That’s stupid,” Marcus said. “You’ll just die. We can’t fight that guy anymore.”

“I have a duty to my tribe,” Horace said. “I must kill this Archmage to protect them.”

“It’s hopeless, Horace!” Laura insisted. “You’re just rushing to your death.”

“Perhaps, but I will never betray my people.”

“Your death won’t help them! You can go back. Even if Arakataron sends the Wizard Order after you, at least you can be there and protect them.”

Horace shook his head. “I know my place. I am a guardian, not a caretaker. This is my duty. If Arakataron survives, my tribe will be annihilated, so I will kill him or die trying.”

She tried to speak again, but Horace raised an open palm. “I’m not discussing this, just letting you know. When you are all safe, I will return to fight.”

He was determined—though deep inside, known only to himself, there was another reason for his insistence. Horace knew he was on borrowed time. When this adventure was over, he’d have to return to his tribe. To his eternal prison.

He would do it without hesitation, yet the thought suffocated him harder than the lake of death energy. He hated it—and he’d rather die than go back.

He shook those thoughts away. Duty comes first.

From the side, Axehand nodded in agreement with Horace’s plan.

“Axehand,” Boney said, as if reading his thoughts, “don’t get any ideas. We must protect Master.”

Axehand faced Boney, and their two skeletal gazes clashed. If Boney had eyes, they would have gone wide with surprise. Undead never abandon their masters!

“What’s wrong with you, Axehand!” he asked, but Axehand only grunted. He didn’t need to be understood, nor did he particularly care about the opinion of others. He would do whatever he wanted.

Axehand and Horace exchanged a glance. They nodded faintly to each other.

“I still want to leave,” Marcus said. “I’m not a fighter. I would love to help, but I won’t participate in a suicide attack.”

“Maybe Axehand and Horace can try to ambush Arakataron again and serve as a distraction while we escape,” Laura said. “It’s riskier for us, but they’ll have a better chance like that.”

Marcus thought about it. “I can take that risk.”

“Then, how should we time it?” Boney asked. “Let’s hurry; there’s no telling how long the air here can last you.”

While the rest were planning and discussing, Jerry sat by himself. He stared at the pearl, trying to peer through its secrets.

What are you, little pearl… he wondered. A weapon? An ornament? A pretty little disaster? Or maybe shiny fish bait?

Of course, he could still hear the others, he just didn’t participate in their conversation. Axehand and Horace’s decision pained his heart, but he understood.

Axehand was a proud individual. The only time he’d lost a fight was when Jericho first assaulted them, and Jerry had sensed the burning shame which flooded Axehand for the next few months.

Horace was similar. He was led not by pride, but by an unwavering devotion on what he considered his duty… Jerry could not share that emotion, nor could he understand it, but everyone had their own paths. If Horace wanted to follow it, though Jerry would be sad, he’d accept it.

Axehand and Horace… These two were different, yet similar in how they placed something else above their lives—or unlives. Pride and duty. Axehand had escaped Jerry’s control long ago. They were peers, and each could make their own decision.

Jerry could only sigh in sadness. He couldn’t understand… or could he?

Death wasn’t terrible. It was unavoidable; if one could make it count, why fear getting there earlier? Why devote one’s entire life to delaying death?

Life was a long series of enjoyable moments. Death was a climax fueled by everything that came before it.

Something clicked in Jerry’s mind. He’d had those thoughts before, but phrasing them like this felt different, as if he’d untied a knot and could see clearly. He gazed at the silent pearl before him. Did you influence me, little pearl?

It did not respond, though Jerry understood. It hadn’t influenced him. It showed him a million visions, and through them, he’d comprehended some things.

Jerry smiled—and the pearl was satisfied.

Suddenly, their connection deepened. Jerry’s soul perception couldn’t penetrate the pearl’s exterior, but a faint link stretched from his soul to its core. That link had been created while he experienced the visions, and it represented the pearl’s approval.

Now, it became something more.

Power pumped through the link. It was minuscule, barely noticeable at all, and it fed into Jerry like the power he pushed into his undead.

When that tiny fraction of magic entered Jerry’s soul, he drew a deep breath. Something had changed. He didn’t know what, but something had. The world became purer, more welcoming.

The death energy was his friend. There was no better way to phrase it.

Being a necromancer, he’d always been sensitive to death energy. His soul contained some of it, as did his undead or corpses. The air also had death energy, though it was sparse and unusable.

When Jerry manipulated death energy, it was like manipulating goat skin to create shoes. It was there, and he shaped it. Being a necromancer felt like having an extra set of hands that could work with death energy.

However, as he felt around him, Jerry realized that was not the case anymore. Death energy wasn’t an ambient material he worked with. It was alive, and it liked him. It was willing to help him. In most areas of the world, where the density of death energy was close to nothing, this would be useless—but in a lake of liquid death energy, its support mattered.

He raised a finger, and the specks of death energy in the air formed into a small butterfly. It landed on his finger and waved its dark wings.

“Hey, guys, look!” he exclaimed, not moving, so he wouldn’t scare it. Everyone turned around, and Marcus released a tired sigh.

“What’s that, Jerry?” he asked.

“Remember how I told you the Prism is my friend? Well, so is death energy! Look!” He used another finger to pet the little butterfly. It stayed still, then dispersed, obviously annoyed. Jerry stared at his finger with disappointment.

“Are you sure it likes you, Master? Maybe you’d just accidentally touched some pollen.”

“It does, Boney, I can feel it!” He looked around again, exploring the sensation. “I mean, not too much… but it likes me!”

“Are you finally going insane, Master? I knew this day would come.”

“Hmph. You just wait and see.”

Jerry closed his eyes and delved into his soul. The death energy there was far more willing to be shaped. He moved it, and it obeyed directly, following his command without needing more energy.

He could even draw energy from the air and refill his personal reserves, albeit at a slow pace—a process which usually happened naturally and much, much slower. However, even this much regeneration was enough to allow him to control a few extra undead.

He usually matched their needed upkeep with his regeneration. Now that the latter had increased, he was unstoppable!

Jerry even realized that, maybe, he could use the ambient death energy to augment his magic. If that worked…

Hehehe. He couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Oh no, Master lost it. Should we go crazy and kill everything?” Boney asked with a straight face.

“Not everything, no,” Jerry replied. “But I do have an idea…”

His soul perception expanded. Even with the Prism’s assistance, it was unable to penetrate the stone surrounding them—the same reason why Arakataron hadn’t realized he was next to the Prism for fifty years. That limitation didn’t extend to the patchwork of clothes they’d used to seal up the entrance. The ambient death energy from outside was also seeping through their barrier, just slowly. Jerry forced his perception through, spreading it farther than ever before

The entire lake was choke-full of death energy. In Jerry’s mind, it was a collection of innumerable tiny dots of magic which all cheered when they saw him, like he was their hero.

A large number of soul fish were arrayed around the rock, and more were frantically swimming toward them every second. There were hundreds of fish, if not a thousand, and they gazed at him like soldiers awaiting orders. He could feel a burning desire inside them; they weren’t his friends, like the death energy was, but they needed his help to achieve something.

Hope… What do you want from me, little fish? he asked, but they did not reply. They had lost their memories and were only acting on instinct; they didn’t know what they wanted, but their desire was so great it seeped into their souls.

Jerry was stunned. This was all too magical—and that was coming from a necromancer! It was like a shoemaker suddenly discovering that shoes could talk and make themselves.

His soul scanned these fish again, and recognized they were a force to be reckoned. Each was individually small, but if all these little souls teamed up… and if the entire lake’s death energy was willing to help him…

He even felt a much larger soul hiding deeper in the lake—or maybe that was just his excitement acting up. The moment he detected it, it detected him as well, and it completely erased its presence.

Jerry shivered. Whatever that thing was, it was powerful, though not aggressive. He chose to ignore it for now. The important part were the schools of fish patrolling the lake, filled with the desire to fight but unable to do so by themselves.

“Guys,” he said, “I don’t want to ruin your noble sacrifice, but I think we have a chance.”

This lake was the perfect environment. Anywhere else, the death energy in the air wasn’t dense enough to form a connection with him, nor were there rows upon rows of soul warriors ready to fight by his side. Here, his newfound connection to the Prism would be extremely potent. Enough to temporarily reach a much higher level.

Jerry smiled. How strong was Arakataron, really? Time to find out.

“Did the Prism really empower you so much?” Laura asked, full of doubt.

“Not extravagantly. With a little practice, I think I can match two-feather wizards. However, in this place alone, I’m almost invincible.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

Two-feather wizards were the elite, the cream of the crop. There weren’t more than a few hundred world-wide. And, to claim to be invincible…

Laura shook her head. “No wonder you dare fight Arakataron.”

Jerry gave a toothy grin. “Prisms are awesome.”

“And Dorman had collected all five,” Marcus said, staring at the ground. “Here I thought he was just an explorer… If he didn’t live in the period of the Great Enigma, he’d be known far and wide by now.”

“He kind of is,” Laura replied with a smile. “Everybody knows him, right?”

Marcus paused. “You aren’t wrong. Still, having all five Prisms… Imagine how strong his team must have been—but why did he scatter them?”

“Who knows,” Laura said.

Jerry laughed. “Whatever the reason, he clearly intended for someone to gather them. That little poem at the end was a riddle pointing to the next hiding place, right?”

“Who the hell was Dorman?” Marcus wondered aloud, his brows furrowed.

“While I appreciate history,” Horace spoke up, “can we get going already? Dorman is dead, and so will we if we don’t hurry.”

They had already taken everything they could from here. Only Shelia’s corpse remained, and they all agreed to seal the cave back up after they left so the body would be preserved. They owed it to her.

With steady steps, Axehand approached the gap they’d made before and tore it open, revealing a waiting darkness full of glowing white fish. He jumped in.

85

THE STRONGEST UNDEAD

For the second time in a short while, Jerry was plunged into cold, dark waters. And this time, he was in control!

The death energy wasn’t nearly as cold as he remembered. It was tender with him and his group, not invading their bodies. Jerry was its friend, after all, and friends took care of each other.

It even created a little bubble around their heads, letting them breathe and speak freely.

He grinned. “That’s more like it.”

Laura and Marcus took a deep breath and exited the cave too, expecting to be assaulted by ice and death; when that didn’t happen, their mouths formed into wide smiles, and they laughed crazily in relief.

Boney could only swim very slowly. His lack of skin made things difficult, so he kept moving his arms and legs only to stay in roughly the same spot. It was quite comedic.

“Master!” he exclaimed. “Can you ask the death energy to move me? I’m stuck!”

He parted the water before him twice but barely got a smidge of momentum going. His words reached Jerry’s ears distorted through the death water, but still understandable; plus, it was funnier this way.

“No can do, Boney!” He laughed.

“But you’re friends! Please, I don’t want to look silly.”

“You always do,” Laura said. Jerry just kept laughing.

“I may be charming, Boney, but I can’t ask the death energy to move you around. You’ll have to swim.”

The skeleton glared at the waters. He then looked at the legion of soul fish which gazed over curiously.

“Excuse me, random souls of dead people,” he asked politely, “can you help me, please?”

The fish were clearly baffled. Everyone laughed.

Then, surprisingly, four fish split from the group and arrived beside Boney, letting him grab on and pulling him along.

“Hah!” he exclaimed. “That’s what you get for mocking my genius. Swim by yourselves, losers!”

Jerry was surprised. He hadn’t realized the fish had physical substance.

Then again, it makes sense since everyone can see them. Maybe the death energy is helping them manifest.

He had no idea how this worked. There was so much to learn still.

“Can we go if you’re done playing?” Horace asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “We have an Archmage to kill.”

“Right. Let’s go!”

Just like that, the group swam away. First, though, they blocked the cave again; Shelia’s body deserved to rest in peace.

Nobody could find them underwater. Traveling was easy. Jerry’s senses guided them to the center of the lake; the massive concentration of death energy was even easier to detect underwater, and much more terrifying to behold. It was like a massive whirlpool at the deepest depths, tugging at their souls with the momentum of an approaching waterfall.

Unfortunately for Boney, the fish were not that fast. Even pulled by them, he remained slower than everyone else. They were also pulling Foxy and Boboar—who were skeletons.

“You can have your speed,” Boney said. “I am Boney Deathwaterson, son of Desistos, the rider of souls. I may not be fast, but I’m cool!”

Jerry agreed. Boney was pretty cool.

They were slower underwater than above it, so the journey took some time. In the process, they passed by many stone formations, and Jerry realized that the farther away they got from Shelia’s cave, the rougher the statues became. Eventually, the stone formations were just that—stones.

Did the Prism make them? Jerry wondered, focusing on the little thing in his pocket. Is it intelligent enough to feel bored, or did it happen naturally?

Both cases brought terrific complications. Jerry couldn’t wait to get to the bottom of things, but it was as Horace had said, they had an Archmage to kill.

The minutes ticked by, and the lake turned deeper as they approached its center. They weren’t swimming close to the surface to avoid detection, but the lake’s bottom, which had been easily visible before, and now long disappeared from their sight.

“We’re getting closer, everyone,” Jerry said, letting the darkness carry his voice. “Be on guard.”

Nobody spoke, everyone lost in their own thoughts. Axehand and Horace were full of battle intent, Jerry’s undead were ready to protect him to the end, and Marcus was cursing his own luck for choosing to come along.

He hadn’t even gotten any treasure!

Something appeared at the end of their sight; a thin line of black darker than its surroundings. As they approached, the line unraveled into a wide beam which pulled death energy ever downward, toward the greedy vortex at the far depths.

Before they even approached the beam, the death energy around Jerry hesitated. Awe filled it, as if about to worship the thing at the depths, and some even flowed in that direction by itself. On the other hand, the soul fish were terrified to the point where they adamantly refused to get any closer.

“What the hell is down there?” Jerry wondered aloud as the fish came to a stop. His eyes couldn’t pierce the thick darkness.

When he was scouting the lake before, he’d sensed a powerful but hesitant presence. This wasn’t it. Whatever this was, it was ancient, powerful, and dead—less a soul and more an echo of one. He didn’t even know this was possible.

Are there two leviathans in this lake? What’s the deal with this one?

“Must be Arakataron’s half-century project,” Horace said. “Ignore it. If we stop him, that thing won’t rise anyway. We’ll have time to look then.”

“Yes…” Jerry replied absent-mindedly. Something was whispering to him. Deep inside his soul was a tugging toward the bottom of the lake. It was subtle enough to pass as his imagination, but Jerry’s instincts told him things weren’t so simple.

Whatever lay down there was connected to his soul. No simple undead could have this effect, no matter how strong it was. What could it be? Jerry was filled with the desire to know.

“You guys stay here,” he said. “I’m going to take a look.”

“Jerry! We’re in a hurry! You can’t just go explore,” Marcus disagreed.

“I feel it’s important,” he insisted. “Don’t worry, I won’t do anything rash; just look. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Axehand grunted, swiping an axe through the water to move beside Jerry.

“You’re coming along?” he asked with a smile. “Excellent. Let’s go. Wait here, everyone.”

Under everyone’s watchful gazes, Jerry and Axehand dove deeper. They distanced themselves from the illumination of the fish school and let the darkness surround them. Jerry’s soul squirmed. There was an uneasy feeling he just couldn’t get rid of, whispering awe and terror, but he pushed it down. He had to know.

Even Axehand was anxious. As they dove deeper, he grew uneasy too, a feeling which came from deep within his soul. The Prism was silent, as if unwilling to involve itself. This was the source of Jerry’s confidence, actually—after living in this lake for at least decades, the Prism definitely had a better grasp of the situation than him. If there was danger, it would react.

They dove so deep that the light of the soul fish disappeared completely. Even the ever-present illumination of the Mists of Death couldn’t reach this far down. Jerry didn’t expect the lake to be this deep. According to the pattern of gradual deepening he’d seen so far, they should have already reached the bottom, but his soul perception said there was a long way to go. Were they inside a fissure, or was the middle of the crater much deeper than imagined?

By now, Jerry couldn’t even see Axehand. Only his soul perception and the towering stone formations allowed him to stay sane in the infinite darkness.

Then, he sensed something. His soul perception touched a presence deep below which wasn’t the lake’s bottom.

Soul perception could only give Jerry a blurry image of the world. It could mostly sense souls, while inanimate objects, like stones and dirt, only vaguely registered. However, when Jerry’s soul touched the body lying below, he had perfect vision of it.

Black, slim scales harder than steel. Four claws and two folded wings with leather membranes. A maw large enough to swallow Jerry whole. A soul vortex which mercilessly sucked in death energy to feed itself, slowly repairing a soul of titanic proportions—a soul he hadn’t sensed at all before, or he would have never approached. There were multiple deep wounds on that soul, and it was in slumber, but the sheer magnitude made Jerry feel like an ant.

No; it wasn’t just the magnitude. There was an aura radiating from this beast, an aura strong enough to render Jerry unable to move even from this distance. His soul screamed to flee, and even the Prism whispered a warning in his mind.

Jerry was gazing at a black dragon.

He knew about dragons, everyone did. They were nature spirits of the highest order, often requiring entire armies to take down. They were said to be the strongest species in existence, as well as exceedingly rare, to the point where only a handful remained in the world.

An undead dragon was every necromancer’s wet dream.

However, seeing the body lying on the floor of the lake, Jerry was certain this was not a mere nature spirit. First, there were no death dragons—for a very specific reason he’d read in Akolateronim’s Introduction to Necromancy. Second, the suppression this creature exerted on his soul was unbelievable. Even standing near it was painful.

If that thing woke up, even in this tattered state, it could destroy him and all his undead with one clawed finger.

Jerry didn’t know how long he remained dazed. It could have been a second or an hour. Only when Axehand nudged him did he move and realize that, despite being underwater, his entire body was drenched in sweat. He was shivering.

“Let’s go,” he whispered, swimming back up at his highest speed. For the first time since Pilpen’s betrayal, Jerry couldn’t control his emotions. He was shocked and dizzy, unable to digest the weight of what he just saw.

There was only one possibility of what that creature was, and the Prism confirmed his suspicions. The implications made Jerry’s jaw clatter. The magnitude of this whole situation settled over him. They were no longer in the kiddie pool. They’d stumbled onto world-class events run by world-class people, and they were children coincidentally armed with a powerful weapon which let them plunge way, way beyond their depth. The Archmage, the Prism, that creature… and Jerry, who wasn’t even a two-feather wizard.

Before he knew it, Jerry was drifting beside everyone.

“Well, what was it?” Laura asked.

Boney, who noticed Jerry’s trembling soul, asked, “Are you okay, Master?”

Jerry shook his head, bringing himself together. “Let’s talk about it later. We have an Archmage to kill, right?”

Everyone looked at each other and nodded. They were curious, but if Jerry wasn’t telling them, he had his reasons.

The soul fish gave Jerry a look of understanding. Their minds were asleep so they couldn’t explain what they felt, but Jerry now understood their terror at the creature below the lake. He felt the same.

“Are you ready, everyone?” Horace asked, commanding everyone’s attention. “We’re going to battle. We’ll either win or lose everything… so we better damn win it. All you guys have to do is support us. Axehand and I will take care of everything.”

He exchanged a glance with Axehand, and both nodded.

“Can you fight?” Horace asked Jerry directly. Jerry didn’t need to speak about what he saw, but he had to be in the right state of mind.

The necromancer took a deep breath, regaining himself. “I can.”

“Alright, then. What’s the plan?” Horace asked. Only Jerry knew what he and the fish could do.

“I will take care of Arakataron. You just keep his undead at bay,” Jerry said. His words fell like a hammer on glass.

“By yourself!” Horace guffawed. “Are you sure, Jerry?”

“No.” He chuckled. “But, thanks to the Prism, I understand some things. You guys are strong, but I’m the only one who can fight him.”

Horace clearly wanted to disagree. “Very well. I trust you.”

“Thank you. The soul fish will fight with me. You guys stop all his death knights and monstrosities from interfering; be especially wary of that mist-face warrior. He must be Arakataron’s strongest undead, which means his power is terrifying.”

Boney spoke up, “But, Master… we can’t handle those undead…”

Of them all, only Axehand and Horace possessed the power to clash with the death knights. If a battle really happened, everyone else would be slaughtered.

“I will fully overcharge you all,” Jerry reassured him. “Even if you can’t defeat the death knights, you will at least be able to protect yourselves.”

The undeads’ eyes lit up—quite literally. Axehand was the only one getting overcharged so far, but that was only because Jerry couldn’t spare the energy to overcharge anyone else at the same time. Axehand was undoubtedly the best option. Fortunately, in this lake of death, he possessed virtually limitless energy.

“What if Arakataron overcharges his undead, too?” Laura asked.

Jerry grinned. “He won’t. At worst, he might overcharge the mist-face warrior… in which case, I wish you all luck.”

“Excellent!” Boney exclaimed, letting the crimson flames burn freely in his eye sockets, as did every other undead. All of them had been itching to fight for their Master—now that they finally had the chance, they weren’t going to disappoint him.

Jerry gave some final instructions, “Laura, you stay back and support the others as needed. Marcus, you… Well, just do your best. I won’t be able to control the lake while fighting, so you’ll have to be on the islands, just stay close to the others and they’ll protect you. In the meantime, you should observe the battlefield and instruct everyone. You will be our commander.”

“Me? A commander?” A playful smile formed on Marcus’s lips. He banged his chest—which was rather underwhelming underwater. “I won’t disappoint you.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

The group swam swiftly and reached the surface, then broke through without stopping and landed on a large stone island. There was nothing more to discuss. Only the soul fish remained in the water, lying in wait.

They were greeted by an army of death knights and monstrosities. Most of them were here, and Arakataron watched from inside the column of death behind his army. The mist-face warrior gazed at the group with cold indifference.

Jerry’s eyes narrowed. The Archmage was a step ahead and had already gathered his army here.

“You are a hundred years too young to—Hmm?” Arakataron began speaking, but his words stopped. He squinted at Jerry. “You… What have you done?”

Jerry smiled. A column of death water rose from the lake and carried him along, taking him into the air, high enough that no undead could reach him. He was flying.

“Come out to fight me, Arakataron,” he declared. “That death beam won’t protect you.”

Arakataron didn’t reply. He was clearly confused. As the Death Archmage, the ambient death energy followed his will, but as soon as Jerry appeared, he felt his control over it waver. This had never happened before—and Arakataron had been an Archmage for a long, long time.

Jerry watched as the Archmage puzzled the clues together. The yellow flames in his eyes turned a greedy green. He straightened his crossed legs—he had feet, after all—and floated out of the death beam, flying himself. He rose slightly higher than Jerry. The mist-face warrior gazed over in surprise. Arakataron’s skull smoothly formed a grin.

“Do you really have it, brat?” he asked, his raspy voice trembling with excitement. “Did you really deliver the Death Prism to me?”

“Only if you can take it.”

“Hah! I don’t know how a mere one-feather managed to force a Prism into submission, but your confidence is false. You can’t even control it properly.”

Jerry smiled enigmatically. “Maybe I can.”

Arakataron’s eyes flared. Death energy gathered below him, forming a swirling vortex midair. The quantity was many times more than a regular necromancer’s magic reserves, and more arrived every moment.

Jerry chuckled as he saw that. Archmages were in control of the ambient magic in the air, and if he could control the Prism properly, he could do the same. Unfortunately, Arakataron was right; Jerry was very far from achieving that fear.

Except he didn’t need to. There was a vast quantity of death energy right below him, just waiting to be used. It was also much denser than in the air, and therefore, much easier to control.

The lake frothed. Waves splashed around as the waters trembled and a stream of black water floated to Jerry’s side, surrounding him like a fat snake. It seemed like a much smaller amount than Arakataron’s, but it was much more condensed. The two sides were roughly equally matched.

“Hollow power.” Arakataron chuckled. “I am the world’s greatest necromancer. Even with the powers of a false Archmage, a newborn brat like you could never match me.”

“Prove it.” Jerry smiled confidently.

“So I shall.”

The air shook, and the winds trembled. The death energy howled as two tremendous streams clashed, and the sky lost its color as the ever-present mist parted in their wake.

86

FACING ARAKATARON

Jerry faced Arakataron in the skies above the death lake.

One was an easygoing young man with nice shoes and one of the greatest treasures in existence.

The other was an ancient lich, the Death Archmage, and arguably the most skilled necromancer kind-of alive.

They made a stark contrast as they stood against each other, separated by frothing streams of death energy which had yet to calm down. Arakataron could utilize the ambient death energy in the air to fight, giving him nigh-endless reserves. It was only thanks to the Prism that Jerry could resist, weakening Arakataron’s influence over the surrounding energy and controlling the death lake.

If Jerry’s finesse was anywhere near Arakataron’s level, the Death Prism would be able to easily overwhelm the Archmage. Unfortunately, he was not.

“What incredible fortune this is,” Arakataron gloated. “I’ve been looking for the Death Prism for a century, and it was just delivered to me by someone too weak to use it properly.”

“Beat me first, brag later.”

Jerry wasn’t going to be outtalked. Arakataron snorted, sparing a glance below.

A fierce battle had erupted beneath their feet. Two hordes of undead smashed into each other, one made of death knights and the other steaming incessantly. Jerry’s undead were all surrounded by the death lake’s waters, which seeped into their bodies and overcharged them. Thanks to the Prism’s suppression, Arakataron couldn’t do the same; he could only overcharge his leading undead, the mist-face death knight.

Said mist-face was a force of nature as he dominated the battlefield, slashing his greatsword at Headless’s charging form. The strike was too fast; Headless could do nothing.

An axe flashed in the air as it blocked the greatsword, their clash so intense it sent all nearby undead flying. Axehand stood his ground. His skull morphed into a grin. He grunted in challenge, staring his enemy in the helmet.

The mist-faced warrior snorted.

“I am Gregorian, Storm of the North, third general of the Astralis Kingdom, proud servant to the Death Archmage. You are a bone monstrosity. Know your place, insect.”

Axehand’s eye-flames, which had already been burning, flared. Crimson tongues licked out like tears untouched by gravity.

An arrow whooshed through the air from behind Axehand, heading for Gregorian. An axe flashed, and the arrow was slapped aside. Axehand had blocked it himself.

From the side, Horace frowned. “What are you doing?”

Axehand grunted. He is mine.

Horace stared disapprovingly. When Axehand didn’t budge, he shook his head. “Fine,” was all he said before a hail of arrows left his bow to assist the rest of Jerry’s undead. He was carrying more than a dozen quivers, crisscrossed on his back in such a way that he could reach all of them unobstructed.

He even tried to hit Arakataron, but a shield of death energy shimmered around him to block all attacks.

Headless was about to be overwhelmed when the arrows arrived. The Billies and Boney were teaming up against three death knights, barely holding their own as they kept them away from Laura and Marcus, who was raving orders:

“Billy One, help Headless! Laura, make the death knight sli—” Arrows cut through the death knights like hot cheese. Marcus stuttered. “Well, I guess that’s one way to do it.”

At the same time, three water jets were unleashed at the fray, where Headless, Billy One, Boboar, and Foxy, all of them overcharged, were facing a group of death knights and monstrosities. It was a mess; when arrows and water jets came into the picture, it became even more so, to the point where Marcus just gave up on coordinating their forces.

“Just give them hell!” he shouted. More death knights broke off to assault Laura and Marcus, who were protected by three Billies and a Boney, while two more chased Horace, who stalled both while still supporting everyone else. A stone island away, Axehand was dueling Gregorian, their battle so intense that nobody dared approach.

In the sky, Jerry didn’t know all this. He didn’t need to. They had a plan, and his job was to defeat Arakataron—if not, his friends would all die. He wouldn’t let that happen.

Arakataron raised his skeletal hands. The heavy mist coalesced into purple snakes, slithering through the air to attack Jerry. Jerry brought his hands down and clenched his fists. The Death Prism pulsed in his pocket, and the lake shook as streams of water rose to form dark eels.

The eels and snakes intertwined in a chaotic dance, reinforcements constantly pouring in for either side until they formed a large ball of death energy. The eels were far larger than the snakes, but Arakataron’s control was leagues beyond Jerry’s. They were at an impasse.

Jerry felt like an infant flailing around with a divine battleaxe. His skills were crude, undeveloped, and amateurish to the point of humiliation. Let alone climbing through the different levels of power; he didn’t even know their names! That didn’t bring him down. His heart fluttered as he considered the long path ahead of him, and how much fun he’d have walking it.

A couple snakes snuck out to strike Jerry, but a ball of death water slapped them to oblivion. Protected by this water, Jerry felt like Laura! He chuckled.

No, no chuckles. I must stay focused.

His eyes sharpened, glowing dark. He extended his arms to the sides. More water rose from below, wave after wave heading for the sky to form a raging flood behind Jerry.

As his arms were spread, he rotated them and brought them in until the palms touched before his chest. The wave behind him trembled. Dark fish of all kinds shot out like arrows, forming a school around him, and they kept appearing until the wave itself dispersed.

“Go!” Jerry shouted, pointing forward, and an aquarium assaulted his enemy.

Arakataron hadn’t been idle either. The air around him was filled with spectral, green-eyed skulls. The fish rammed into them. Bone jaws ripped fish in half. Fins swarmed bones until they were ground to nothing.

Arakataron chuckled. “Up the ante as much as you want. Show me the power of a novice.”

“Your mother is a novice.”

Jerry stopped creating death animals. Not only were they ineffective, but watching them dissipate made him feel bad, even though they had no soul.

A reverse waterfall rose from behind him and rushed directly for Arakataron, who cackled. The mists formed a swirling vortex before him that dispersed the waterfall. As the two forces collided, drops of dark water flew everywhere, and the ambient energy ground them down to mist.

Water was Jerry’s domain. Air was Arakataron’s.

As the waterfall and mist kept colliding, Jerry frowned. In this exchange, where he commanded far stronger power than his opponent, he was clearly losing!

“I told you,” Arakataron’s voice came warped from behind the clash, “a novice can never beat me, Prism or not.” Jerry was determined to prove him wrong, but before he could say anything, Arakataron spoke again, “My turn.”

Jerry flew backward and saw the death water he’d unleashed become submerged in a flood of soul energy. Arakataron’s soul flew out like a purple sea, passing through everything unobstructed as it came for Jerry.

This was nothing like Maccain, whom Jerry had fought in what the Introduction to Necromancy called “soul war.” That time, Jerry had lost catastrophically, but at least he was facing a force he could understand. Maccain’s soul was vast and practiced, but it wasn’t that different from Jerry’s.

Against Arakataron, Jerry was floored. This soul was dozens of times vaster than Maccain’s. It was also fully permeated with death energy, to the point where its purple sea was littered with specters. Facing it was like trying to hold back a landslide with your bare hands.

Moreover, Jerry could feel that Arakataron’s soul contained even more power than was readily visible, more secrets, and that was without even mentioning his skill at waging soul war.

Jerry gulped. What kind of power is this? It’s unfair!

It was impossible to run. His soul rose in resistance and was blasted away instantly. Arakataron’s soul surrounded Jerry and drowned him, invading his body like a million tiny hands. It reached deep inside him, where the black ball that was Jerry’s everything hovered, and tried to grasp it. Jerry was completely powerless to resist.

But he had the Prism.

Although Arakataron’s power ran amok inside his body, some of the lake water dissolved into pure death energy which filled the Prism with power. A faint black-and-white wall appeared around Jerry’s soul. It was transparent and frail, almost phantasmal, but no matter how hard Arakataron struck, it held strong.

Jerry’s body became a battlefield beyond his comprehension. Arakataron had met a worthy opponent. He used his full force and skill to attack, unleashing techniques Jerry couldn’t wrap his head around. His soul power transformed into insects, then waves, then a massive fist which came crashing down. Jerry had no idea this could even happen. It was clear that Arakataron was a master of soul war, but the Prism’s defenses were unassailable.

It was protecting Jerry. Since it had chosen him, it wouldn’t let him go down without a fight, and Jerry felt warmth in his soul. Someone—something—cared about him!

However, even the Prism’s protection wasn’t absolute. It could shield Jerry’s soul from raw power, but Arakataron had more tricks up his sleeve. His soul became a mist which seeped through the wall. It couldn’t harm Jerry’s soul in this state, but it could plunge him into illusions.

Jerry’s world became filled with death—and not even the good kind. Spirits howled in eternal torment. Souls were lacerated by steel whips. A terrifying wraith with sharp teeth, long hair, and wielding one such whip noticed Jerry appear.

It grinned, then rushed at him. The closer it approached, framed by hell itself and promising an eternity of agony, Jerry felt horror crawl up his spine. This illusion was so finely crafted that he completely forgot himself, taking everything for real. His was so intense that a normal soul would have already crumbled.

However, Jerry held. It wasn’t a conscious effort; the terror just didn’t manage to overwhelm him. No matter how the wraith approached, getting scarier every instant, Jerry simply stared.

It is what it is.

A steel whip met his face, and the illusion dispersed. Jerry found himself in a room filled with riches, pleasures of all kind, and food so dreamy it made his soul hungry. There were no words to describe the heavenly promises, the temptation.

Jerry didn’t care for such things, though. These temptations were all created by Arakataron, but how could he know that Jerry didn’t want gold, women, power, or food? All he wanted was a soft chair, nice shoes, and happy friends!

Why does everyone try the same things? Do they lack imagination? Jerry thought, and with a shake of his head, the illusion disappeared; he was back in midair. Barely a second had passed in the real world. Arakataron’s soul shook in shock.

“How are you still sane? Interesting. There was a reason the Prism chose you, then. So be it. I will keep you alive.”

“Finally, one thing we can agree on.” Jerry smiled. His greatest weakness against Arakataron was soul war, but it seemed he was impervious in that department. Therefore, he stood a chance.

As for death energy manipulation, though he could match Arakataron, it was an uphill battle. Thankfully, the third domain necromancers could fight in besides soul and energy, was one where he felt supremely confident.

“Axehand,” he muttered, “I choose you.”

Below their feet, Axehand and Gregorian were locked in fierce combat. The stone island below them was filled with gashes, each impact enough to make the far-off undead shiver. Though Axehand was overcharged and his opponent was not, they were evenly matched, clashing at speeds and strengths which made normal death knights seem wholly inadequate.

Suddenly, the lake water around them churned.

Axehand and Gregorian jumped back, neither knowing what was going on, and copious amounts of death water surrounded Axehand, sticking to his bones and assimilating with them. From the red of overcharging, they turned pitch-black, and the steam which rose from them doubled in volume.

A grunt came from inside the bubble of death water, carrying an aura strong enough to dominate the weak of will.

Axehand was a special undead. Jerry didn’t know exactly why, but Axehand had always been his strongest, by far. He’d reached the level of a death knight, strong enough to easily shake off Jerry’s control if he wanted to, and while overcharged, Axehand easily overwhelmed the similarly overcharged Jericho. He’d even cleaved apart a whale’s tail with one strike, a feat which should have been physically impossible.

Jerry, by contrast, had always known this wasn’t Axehand’s limit. When overcharging an undead, necromancers were usually limited by that undead’s capacity to endure increased amounts of energy. Axehand easily absorbed everything Jerry could give him. Of the two, it was Jerry’s magical reserves that were limited; he’d never even approached Axehand’s.

Now that Jerry had access to unlimited power—however temporary—Axehand could go completely all-out.

More and more water seeped into his bones, which grew darker by the moment. The sheer amount of energy they could absorb was staggering. The water kept pouring in with no end in sight.

Jerry drew a sharp breath, as did Arakataron. This was so beyond a regular death knight’s limit it was ridiculous.

The intake finally slowed. Axehand waved his axe, and the water dispersed around him, revealing a pitch-black avatar of doom for all trees. As he stood there, the stone island groaned under his feet, and the weight of his stare made Gregorian’s mist shake.

Even the nearby undead war screeched to a halt as nobody dared to even breathe loudly.

A dark chuckle finally broke the silence. “Interesting. But two can play this game, young one.”

The mist around Arakataron shook as it funneled downward. It formed a second death energy beam much like the ritual’s, which still stood intact. The new beam pierced down like a needle, crossing the air to fall on the head of Gregorian, Arakataron’s most elite undead.

Axehand could have acted already, but he waited. Everyone did.

Gregorian’s aura grew heavier until it shone like a dark sun in Jerry’s soul perception. There was no outward change, but an incredible volume of death energy dived into his body and disappeared. When the energy stopped coming, the mist emitted from Gregorian’s face grew slightly thicker. That was his only outward change.

And in terms of strength, he was simply incomparable to before.

“I have scoured entire continents to find the most gifted death knight,” Arakataron said. “It is already incredible that your random skeleton can compare, but that’s as far as you go.”

Axehand and Gregorian stared each other down, then moved so rapidly they disappeared. Axe met greatsword in the middle of the stone island.

The stone erupted under their feet. A hole was formed in the water. The sound was sharp enough to make Laura scream, and the ensuing shockwave threw all nearby undead into the air. Jerry gasped.

Axehand and Gregorian had reached the limits of physical strength.

And then, they began to fight for real.

87

THE PEAK OF STRENGTH

Boney had never felt like this in his unlife. This power, this strength…

Back when he was alive and full of blood, he experienced many things. While in life-or-death battles—of which he’d had exactly two—his vision sharpened, his entire body homed in on the present, the limiters of his muscles were released, and he became the monster that humans were meant to be.

That was the closest experience to what he felt right now, except nowhere near in intensity. Boney wasn’t pushing at his limits; he was far beyond them, his body containing enough power to put bears to shame—or so he felt.

“Fear me, foolish creatures!” he roared at the enemy death knights, drunk on this power. “Curse the day you offended my master, for I, Boney, am his⁠—”

They were fighting already. Boney was stunned. How dare they ignore me!

“I’ll show you!” Drawing his sword, he charged at a monstrosity and slashed away at it, pouring more strength into the strike than he ever had before. The blade cut halfway into its arm and got stuck. Boney stared at his sword, then at the monstrosity, just in time to catch a punch to the face which launched him backward with cracking sounds. At least, the sword got dislodged.

“Oof!” a sound came as someone caught him. “Watch it!”

“Marcus!” Boney exclaimed, full of joy, because he was still unalive! Marcus didn’t pay him any mind, already shouting instructions to the Billies.

What a crazy feeling… I almost lost myself there. Whoops.

Overcharging was more overwhelming than he’d expected.

“—and you, Boney, guard us!” Marcus said, pushing Boney forward.

“What?”

A death knight charged him. Boney’s bones went paler. “Master!” A scimitar came from the side and met the death knight mid-charge, stopping it in its tracks. Billy Two grinned with blood lust. The death knight gazed emptily.

Billies Three and Four collided with other opponents, protecting Laura and Marcus. At the same time, Laura was shooting water everywhere, while Marcus shouted orders left and right. They were effective, too—Boney saw Foxy lure two death knights where Boboar and Headless rammed into them, throwing them into the air and, consequently, the death lake.

Everyone was overcharged—bless the Master—and much stronger than usual. Yet, despite Arakataron sending a bunch of death knights to the Prism Dungeon, they could barely hold their own, and that was only due to Horace, whose arrows and individual strength dominated the battlefield.

Boney looked at the sky. You must succeed, Master… I believe in you wholeheartedly, though I have no heart!

Before he could cluckle, a monstrosity slipped past the Billies and lunged, forcing him to defend. Boney clashed with it. When keeping his cool and focusing on defense, he could handle one of these for a little bit. Probably.

Axehand’s world had turned into crumbling paper. He was stronger than he could comprehend.

The greatsword fell on him, and he struck it right back. The dark waters exploded around them. Another stone island crumbled. Axehand jumped back, this little movement carrying him five islands across, but the opponent was hot on his heels.

Only one thing mattered to Axehand now. The enemy. Everything else was slow, meaningless, and so utterly weak he could tear them apart with a casual hack of his axes.

Only his Master and the Archmage up in the sky possessed some strength, but Axehand knew that was not his battle—not yet. As soon as he was done with this man-shaped tree, he would go help Master. He was a lumberjack; he only cut one tree at a time.

He’d realized that, while overcharged, the Master’s magic became a part of him that he could emit at will. He could cut an entire whale tail in one strike. He could crack a stone island like an egg.

Axehand grunted as he stepped forth, denting the stone before Gregorian even arrived. He stopped retreating and attacked. Axe met greatsword in a cataclysmic collision which parted the mist and destroyed the stone island, but he remained standing. He wasn’t pushed back. The opponent was.

Axehand grinned and charged, stepping on debris to accelerate further. He crossed the ruined islands and slammed on Gregorian like a cannonball, sending him flying back toward the edges of the lake.

Their battle was so intense and overpowering that they’d already distanced themselves from the lake center, where the giant death beam still stood. They exchanged multiple blows per second. Each impact or charge sent them flying hundreds of feet away, and they crossed several stone islands in the blink of an eye, faster and stronger than anything had the right to be.

The entire death lake had become their battleground. The number of stone islands was dropping quickly. Axehand and Gregorian moved so rapidly that the magic they emitted formed a crisscrossing grid over the lake, explosions erupting everywhere.

Though they’d fought at incredible intensity for several breaths of time, none had secured a significant advantage. The two were equally matched, and that pissed Axehand off. He was the best. He had to win.

Their weapons clashed again as Axehand went on the offensive. He chased after his opponent without respite, launching strike after strike before Gregorian could even land. His axes, which could now fell even the sturdiest of trees, were carving line after line on his enemy’s greatsword and armor—but they were undoubtedly enhanced, too, and held strong.

“Absurd!” Gregorian roared, rippling the lake’s surface. “You don’t deserve this! I⁠—”

An axe smashed at his face, and he barely had time to block. He flew back so fast that the lake rippled under him, and he crashed into a stone island with such force that it was ripped from its base and tilted.

“I am Gregorian!” he yelled, rising from the debris. “The strongest death knight! The Storm of the North! The third gener⁠—”

A grunt cut him off as a menacing form fell from the sky, tilting the island heavily the other way and sending Gregorian flying again. Axehand jumped in pursuit, and the midair collision sent them both careening downward. They landed seven islands apart and stared at each other.

Axehand held the upper hand, but truthfully, he wasn’t winning. His attacks were all blocked, and the damage he dealt was minimal. More importantly, attacking with such frenzy put a lot of strain on his body, and given that he was already overcharged to the absolute limit of his bones, he risked fracturing himself. If that happened, he would lose.

Of course, if he took the enemy down before that, he would win, and Axehand was a skeleton who always bet on himself.

“How dare you—” Before Gregorian could monologue, Axehand attacked again. He would either fell this tree or die trying—as any honorable lumberjack should.

High in the sky, Jerry couldn’t stop gaping at the battle between Axehand and Gregorian. The two were so strong they resembled gods on earth, fighting with such force they made the entire death lake—a mile from end to end—seem too small to host their battle.

Jerry didn’t know this, but both he and Arakataron were necromancers who focused on their undead, rather than soul war or energy manipulation. Axehand and Gregorian’s battle represented the core of the conflict, and the victorious undead would most likely determine the winner.

He believed in his undead. He only needed to stall until Axehand won. Or, if viewed from the other side, Arakataron had to destroy Jerry before Gregorian lost.

The Archmage shone like a dark beacon. The air shimmered around him, the mists slithering and hissing as if alive. Jerry frowned deeply, a foreboding feeling sweeping through him; this volume of magic was already more than Arakataron had used before, and it was still mounting.

Was he holding back? he wondered, but there was no time to think. Before Arakataron could begin his assault, Jerry called the lake to his aid. The water rose in waves, each containing enough death energy to raise a graveyard, and they coiled around Jerry, forming a reserve of power which kept expanding.

Jerry was already strained. Though the Prism gave him access to an endless supply of energy—the death lake—manipulating it taxed his soul. If magic was arrows, the soul was the bow.

Imbuing Axehand was already strenuous. There was a limited amount of water he could control, and for a limited period. Sweat trickled from his forehead as he steadily approached that limit.

Arakataron appeared unbothered by such trivialities. The mist had already formed into a thousand purple snakes around him, their eyes burning green. The dark glow on his body intensified. His robes flapped wildly as if a terrifying gust blew on his back, revealing a body made of slim, black bones. The invisible gust of wind reached the snakes, which all hissed and lunged forth like a flood of fangs.

“Go!” Jerry yelled, willing an actual flood to erupt from his side. The water frothed as it fell toward Arakataron, wave after wave splashing on the snakes like shores. Jerry had brought his own tide to battle, and logic dictated that the snakes and mists would be washed away.

Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Their powers didn’t entwine like before. This time, Arakataron was serious.

The snakes swam. When the water fell on them, they found weak points and pierced through. When surrounded, some fell, but the rest formed bundles and helped each other resist. They demonstrated intelligence that a mere flood could never attain.

Jerry’s heart was clenched. He outclassed Arakataron in sheer quantity of energy, but his control over it was very lacking in comparison. It was natural; Arakataron became an Archmage by being the most skilled necromancer in the world, and he had over a century of experience under his belt. How could Jerry hope to compare?

Arakataron controlled hundreds of intelligent snakes which cooperated with each other to make it through, while Jerry could only throw raw energy at him and hope for the best. The winner was obvious.

As surely as the tide recedes, the water was dissipating. So were the snakes, only much more slowly. This was Jerry’s all-out attack, and he could only watch it waste away. He tried to do something, to control it better, to not let the snakes mockingly swim around his attacks, but it was useless.

The Prism let him control the death water, but how well he controlled it was up to him, and though Jerry was talented, he was far too inexperienced.

No! I’m going to lose!

When necromancers fought, there were three battlefields:

Undead, in which they were temporarily tied. A victor would be determined eventually, but it took time.

Death energy manipulation, where Jerry was clearly losing. This battle would finish much faster than the undead one.

Soul battle, where Jerry was completely helpless. He could defend, thanks to the Prism and his own mental resilience, but he could not attack.

Things were not looking good.

Axehand sensed Jerry’s emotions. He grew even more frenzied, even more agitated. The stone islands crumbled, the mists dissipated, and the entire lake shook, but Gregorian focused on defending. He wouldn’t go down fast, if ever.

Jerry smiled bittersweetly. There was nothing more he could do. His only trump card were the soul fish, but they could only be useful in soul war, at which he was completely helpless.

I’m sorry, guys… I tried my best. At least it was a fun ride. We formed a circus; who does that? Heh.

Jerry crossed eyes with Arakataron and both knew.

“Surrender,” Arakataron said.

“No,” Jerry replied.

“Very well.”

Just as all seemed lost, a voice spoke in Jerry’s mind: Hey, kid, I’ll help you if you promise to revive me.

88

OZBORNE THE CURSED

Jerry was stunned. What? he thought back.

Come on, kid. We don’t have all day! Just say yes.

Who are you?

And why were they asking to be revived? Jerry needed all the help he could get, but his mind went to the black dragon under the lake. He knew what it was, and it should never be revived.

I know what you’re thinking, but I’m no Primordial. I’m Ozborne! Come on, kid, for real. We’re in a hurry here!

Ozborne?

Jerry blinked rapidly. The death water he’d summoned was wilting away, yet he focused on the voice inside him.

Now that he thought about it, he had indeed sensed a strong soul deep in the lake at some point, and it couldn’t have been the dragon; after all, when he’d approached, it was clearly soulless. But, for it to be the legendary Ozborne the Cursed…

He knew who Ozborne was; everyone did. A famous necromancer of old, part of the Astralis Kingdom. One of his experiments had gone wrong, and the result was the Curse which plagued the Dead Lands, the Curse of Ozborne; though Jerry now knew that was misinformation. Who, then, was Ozborne, and why had he been falsely accused?

And, most importantly, what the hell was he doing here?

Are you a good guy? Jerry asked. I know you didn’t create the Curse, as everyone says. What are you doing here? Where are you?

Kid, be serious! You’re all going to die if you don’t hurry!

I am serious. I won’t revive a bad guy.

A short pause followed before Ozborne replied, When the Wizard Order created the Curse, I tried to stop them, and they made me their scapegoat. Arakataron killed me, but my soul hid in this damn death reserve. I’ll either find a way to revive myself or rot for eternity.

Oh! Are you a soul fish, too?

Yes, just bigger. More importantly, kid, I’ve been watching your fight. Every soul fish in this lake hates Arakataron with a passion, but even if everyone came out to help you, you are so unskilled it would be useless.

That’s not very nice.

It’s the truth. However, I can help you! I’m an expert in soul war! If you promise to revive me and provide energy for us, I can lead the soul fish to fight for you. We can defeat Arakataron!

Hmm… Jerry thought about it. I don’t know how to revive people.

I do! You just need to use the Prism to provide me with energy!

Convenient. Still, you didn’t reply. Are you a good guy?

I am, by Desistos, I am! Just agree!

Okay, fine.

Finally!

Just before the snakes overwhelmed the midair flood, the lake water below rippled. Rows of white fins appeared. Jerry looked over with interest, and his soul perception caught a massive silhouette approaching from below.

He grinned. Arakataron stared inscrutably.

On the stone island below, Boney managed to push back a monstrosity. “Haha! Let’s go! For Mast⁠—”

The waters parted beside him, raising waves which took him to the ground. A massive form exited the lake and flew up, making the entire battle pause again. Even Axehand and Gregorian took a moment to inspect the new arrival.

Arakataron’s gaze darkened. “Ozborne… So, you’re still alive. We did not call you a cockroach for nothing.”

Jerry laughed. “What soul fish, you liar? You’re a mammal!”

And Ozborne, flapping his large tail in midair, bellowed deeply. “I finally have hope! Prepare to die, Arakataron. Your time has come!”

“Master!” Boney screamed. “That’s a whale!”

Ozborne had called himself a soul fish, but when he emerged, he was a full-sized whale. He was transparent and white, just like the fish, striking a deep contrast against the purple mist and dark waters. Moreover, he was huge; just like a whale, his form dominated the air and forced Jerry and Arakataron to fly farther away from each other, letting Ozborne hover in the middle. He faced Arakataron, his massive form rippling with power.

In hindsight, Jerry should have expected it. Necromancers had souls vastly superior to normal people, and Ozborne had been a legendary necromancer. Of course, his soul would be incomparable to the normal soul fish.

“This changes nothing,” Arakataron said. “I defeated you twice, and I can do it again.”

“But I have the Prism,” Ozborne replied.

“That’s me, actually,” Jerry quipped, “but I’ll help you.”

“Come on, kid. Enough talking. Fill us up!”

“With what?”

“Your energy, of course! Let us fight!”

The whale looked at him with excitement, and despite its old age and battle fervor, Jerry found it cute. He grinned. “Let’s!”

His soul burst through the Prism’s protective walls and out of his body. So did Arakataron’s, which was incomparably larger, but Jerry was no longer alone. The Prism’s blessing coursed through Jerry, and the waters trembled as school after school of fish emerged.

There were hundreds! Each fish was a soul unjustly taken, each fish a nemesis of Arakataron. Alone, they were weak, but together, they were a force to be reckoned with!

The fish ignored gravity to fly around the whale, taking it as their leader. All of them were filled up with death water, courtesy of Jerry—otherwise, they could only stay inside the lake.

Jerry flew to land on the whale’s head.

“Wh—Kid! What are you doing?”

“What? I thought we were allies.”

“You can’t stand on my head!”

“Why not? You’re a whale. You have a big head.”

“But I—I’m a legendary necromancer! I ruled the world before you were even born!”

“Well, maybe make your head less comfortable if you don’t want people to stand on it. Come on; this lets us work closer together, right?”

The whale sighed, a deep, trembling sound. “Fine… Have it your way. As long as you revive me later, all will be good.”

Jerry giggled. He was riding a whale—Boney would be so proud. “Let’s go, Ozborne!”

“Let’s go!”

The fish formed armies of soul power around the whale. Arakataron’s soul was arrayed before them. It was no longer just a purple sea; Arakataron was serious, and his soul formed into thousands of tiny soldiers. It split into different squadrons which moved independently, like a well-trained army under an experienced general.

Souls were invisible to most people, but in the thick of the mists, they weren’t! Two armies appeared midair, one made of little black soldiers and led by a lich, and the other formed of white fish and led by a Jerry-ridden whale.

Marcus pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Laura gasped. Horace laughed. Boney was starstruck, and he screamed, “You’re amazing, Master!”

Axehand grunted, his battle with Gregorian still obliterating the dark lake.

“Attack!” Ozborne shouted. With Jerry’s support, his soul stretched out and connected to all the fish, controlling them as Arakataron did his soldiers. The two forces were similar in quantity, and Ozborne was very experienced. His skill could match Arakataron. This would be a true battle.

The fish and little soldiers flew at each other. War erupted.

Jerry could only stand on the whale’s head and watch.

“Can I help?” he asked.

“Just keep fueling us.”

Arakataron and Ozborne were masters. Their troops intertwined and fought in more places than Jerry could watch at once, let alone command. Each group of fish or soldiers flowed seamlessly from one formation to the next. Their shapes changed, forces moved from one battlefront to the other, and sometimes, the soldiers and fish even combined into one entity or transformed into different beings entirely.

Jerry saw ambushes and forts. Lions fighting whales. Sharks streaking through the battlefield, and giants smashing entire legions apart. Everything was small in size—each soldier was the size of Jerry’s hand—but the totality covered Jerry’s horizon.

I have so far to go…

At that moment, he admired necromancers—and, at the same time, he yearned for the future. He, too, would conquer magic. He would own such power.

Jerry’s soul was brilliant.

“Go, Ozborne!” he shouted. He was already madly funneling power into the army; coupled with supporting Axehand’s over-overcharging and holding back Arakataron’s energy snakes—which still fought his dark flood to the side—he was stretched to his limit. Any more and he would break.

Even though Axehand and Ozborne fought in one battlefield, along with everyone on the island below, Jerry was the spine and root of everything.

Arakataron was growing angry. “Look how many helpers you need to match me! You’re completely unworthy!”

“My friends helping me is no shame, Arakataron! Besides, I’ll reach your level eventually—just watch me!”

The mad war grew in intensity. Soldiers and fish fell left and right—the latter eager to give their lives against Arakataron—and the smaller the armies became, the finer their commanders’ control.

The clashes accelerated and sharpened. The rate of casualties decreased. The magnificent battlefield in the sky turned into a core of lightning-fast violence. Both armies dwindled at the same pace, but Jerry had backup. Not all fish made it in time originally, and more kept rising from the lake.

“Fine!” Arakataron spat out darkly. He grabbed a large red gem on his ring and crushed it, releasing a terrifying beast. It was made of black smoke and resembled a hyena, and it jumped into battle with a sickening cackle, destroying two fish in one move. It rampaged through the battlefield like an unstoppable giant, and for a moment, Arakataron dominated.

“No, you don’t!” Ozborne yelled. With a magnificent flap of his tail, he flew into battle himself, ramming into the hyena head-on. The two ripped into each other with abandon, spectral blood and smoke flying everywhere. Ozborne’s colossal body was smothering the hyena, trying to crush it. The beast fought back fiercely, and the pain it elicited distracted Ozborne.

His control over the army wavered. The fish were pushed back.

“I got this!” Jerry said, still standing atop the whale. His soul reached into Ozborne, wrapping around it and taking on a large part of the pain. He screamed—getting ripped apart by a hyena was no pleasant feeling.

Yet it worked. Ozborne’s mind recovered, and the battle regained its balance. More fish were still arriving; they were winning.

Now, it was Arakataron’s turn to despair.

The battle between undead was still undecided. The energy manipulation battle was moving at a snail’s pace, almost suspended entirely, and restarting it needed time and focus he did not have. The soul war was losing.

Arakataron took a gamble. He temporarily forwent the soul war, enduring the loss to focus entirely on the energy snakes from before. Jerry’s flood was already weakened, and he was busy doing everything else; he could not help in time. As the snakes doubled in fierceness, the flood of black water was torn apart and dissipated.

Arakataron’s heart was filled with glee, and Jerry’s with despair; in one decisive blow, the energy manipulation battle was over, and Jerry could not summon new water, not now. The fish were still beating up the little soldiers, but the snakes were about to tear Jerry apart. The fish—being mostly soul forms—couldn’t touch them.

“No!” Ozborne screamed.

“Master!” Boney screamed. Arrows flew at the snakes from below, only managing to destroy some of them. They were energy forms, after all, and flying snakes; how were arrows supposed to stop them?

The snakes opened their fangs wide and lunged.

89

REVIVAL

Axehand smacked Gregorian with everything he had before looking to the side. A few dozen stone islands away, the skies were filled with transparent, glowing fish and a whale, along with armies made of mist. The two forces entwined and clashed midair, forming a magnificent spectacle which Axehand disregarded.

Master would win.

Axehand chased after his opponent, who was by now focused on defending. It was irritating. No matter how much he smacked him around, Gregorian was sturdy enough to take it with minimal damage, and his mist-covered face was even twisted in hateful mockery.

At least, Axehand had his little revenge.

“You pathe⁠—”

Slash.

Every time the opponent tried to stop and say something, Axehand hacked at him with all his strength and sent him flying. Gregorian grew profoundly irritated at this, for reasons beyond Axehand’s understanding. This was a battle; why talk?

However, Axehand was growing tired. Why didn’t the opponent fall?

A triumphant feeling came through his connection to the Master, followed by a far-off, scalding pain. It wasn’t much, but enough to understand the Master was in trouble. Axehand risked a peek and saw the whale entangled with a green-spotted hyena made of black smoke.

No feeling of urgency reached him. They were winning. This pleased Axehand, while also irritating him; he wanted to deal the final blow, not be stuck fighting this plate-armored tre⁠—

A greatsword lunged for Axehand, and he barely had time to defend before getting sent flying. He released a surprised grunt. Gregorian was no longer defending; in fact, he was filled with urgency. Master was indeed winning.

Axehand bounced off a stone island to land on another, then cracked it as he launched himself out. Two axes swung hard, and so did the greatsword. They collided with a colossal bang, and Axehand was sent flying the farthest. His previous relentless attacks had come with a price; he was now exhausted.

Still, Axehand did not for a moment consider changing tactics. He was a lumberjack, and lumberjacks struck until nothing remained. By the time he recovered, Gregorian was already there. Axehand blocked, his body sent crashing into the lake bottom before jumping back up.

He was prepared to fight until either side fell when something changed. Panic came through his bond to Master. The aerial battle was within Axehand’s line of sight, and he saw a bunch of snakes tear the flying lake water apart. That couldn’t be good. They were going to eat Master.

Axehand locked eye-flames with the enemy death knight, who had given up on talking. The mist dissipated, revealing a handsome face marred by a long scar, with a large, gloating smile painted on its lips. Gregorian assumed a guard. His intention was clear; he would defend until Arakataron won.

Axehand knew that the master depended on him, and he decided to help. For a lumberjack of his stature, and facing such a cowardly opponent, it should be easy.

Axehand rushed at the knight and struck at full force, sending him flying back. They’d run over the entire lake twice by now, and Axehand had an idea of where they were, and his mind registered one detail that his opponent, cowardly as he was, had definitely forgotten.

He launched off the stone island and kept smacking Gregorian away in seemingly random directions. The death knight maintained its gloating smile. With their current physiques, getting sent flying counted as a successful defense, as their bodies and stone islands couldn’t support a full-on block.

Axehand stayed close to Gregorian as they fought.

Right as the snakes tore the last of the water apart and jumped at Jerry, Gregorian landed on a seemingly random stone island, his back turned to the aerial fight. The island, unlike all others, wobbled.

At the beginning of their fight, while Axehand and Gregorian still experimented with their powers, they landed on a stone island hard enough to tilt it but soft enough to let it remain whole. It was now only supported by the central part of the stone formation underneath, and it could tilt in any direction.

Axehand had remembered this, along with the island’s location.

When Gregorian landed on one side of the island, his weight tilted it down. Axehand crashed on the other side with a cocky grunt, reversing the island’s tilt abruptly and sending Gregorian flying straight up.

For a moment, Gregorian simply hovered, waiting to land. He never did. Axehand rammed into him like a cannonball. Gregorian defended, as he always had so far, but wasn’t conscious of his positioning.

Axehand was, and his attack had been precise, as every lumberjack’s axe should be.

Gregorian was blasted away. Mid-flight, he realized where he was headed, but there was nothing he could do. With a desperate roar, Gregorian slammed into Arakataron’s flying form, sending his master flying away like a pool ball. The Archmage’s energy shield had shattered.

Gregorian’s invasion in the aerial battle, and against his own master nonetheless, was completely unexpected. The Archmage survived the impact, but his concentration had been broken.

The soul soldiers faltered, and half were destroyed on the spot by packs of ravenous fish. The snakes lost their shapes, blowing forth by inertia before dissipating like the mist they were.

This all took place within a second, and everyone was left staring. Just as it seemed Arakataron was about to win, Axehand turned the battle around with one brilliant move!

He landed on an island and grunted. If he could, he would have winked at Jerry.

“Axehand…” Jerry said, touched.

Arakataron was the first to recover from the shock. “NO!” he screamed, staring at his stumbling soul army and destroyed mist snakes. A single mistake had cost him both battlefields. If the enemy simply attacked him in the energy and soul domains, he wouldn’t even last a minute. He couldn’t recover. He had been defeated.

His soul turned darker. “NO!” he screamed again. He pointed a finger at Gregorian, who was still falling and apologizing. The death knight trembled. Streams of dark mist left him to head for Arakataron, and he could only stare at his master in disbelief before his body turned into dust, including his armor and weapon.

“Why, Master?” was all the previous third general of the Astralis Kingdom managed to say before disappearing forever.

Jerry stared in shock. Even Axehand was surprised by this change, as was Ozborne. It made no sense.

Arakataron pointed at his undead army, which was still fighting Jerry’s undead. All the death knights and monstrosities collapsed like puppets with severed strings. In a single breath, Arakataron had voluntarily destroyed his entire undead army.

What is he doing? Jerry thought. At the same time, the whale’s deep voice rumbled.

“Stop him!” he shouted in a voice full of urgency. “Stop him!”

“Axehand, stop him!” Jerry repeated, throwing as much death water as he could at the Archmage. He didn’t know what was happening, but he had a bad feeling. Axehand’s feet crushed the stone island beneath him as he shot forth, and Ozborne’s entire soul army lunged for Arakataron.

The Archmage ignored them all. Unleashing a burst of death energy to fly faster, he cut through the air to arrive at the center of the lake. The death beam was still active. In the heat of battle, Jerry had disregarded it as part of the background.

Arakataron arrived at the death beam before anyone could reach him. In a voice full of madness, he dove into the beam and shouted, “ARISE!”

Jerry’s torrent of lake water reached the death beam at the same time as Axehand, with the soul fish only a moment behind. Axehand hacked at the beam with all his newfound strength, and Jerry provided him with as much energy as he could, forgoing almost everything else.

They needed to stop Arakataron.

Right as Axehand’s axe was about to strike the death beam, the entire world shook. Magic itself fell into disarray. Axehand faltered and tumbled away. The death water splashed ineffectively, like regular water. The soul fish shivered and almost dissipated.

This lasted for only a moment. Then, everything returned to normal, but something screamed inside Jerry. Something had changed. The world around him was different, but how?

Ozborne was silent. Arakataron’s mad laughter cut through the air, shaking them all with its intensity. “I did it!” he yelled with glee. “I finally did it!”

“What did he do?” Horace asked.

“He revived the thing I saw under the lake,” Jerry replied. His voice was low, but the death energy carried to everyone’s ears. “A black dragon. The only black dragon in the world, with a body made of solidified death energy and the essence of necromancy for a soul.”

“A nature spirit?” Horace asked.

“No.” Jerry shook his head. “A Primordial.”

Marcus snapped out of his shock. “That’s a God! The Primordials went missing during the Great Enigma, and everyone’s been looking for them! You’re saying the corpse of one was here all along?”

“Not all along. I think it was just moved here at some point,” Jerry said. “Most importantly… It isn’t a corpse anymore.”

Arakataron hurriedly flew aside to make way, and nobody attacked him. Everybody stared where the death beam used to be.

The waters parted like when Ozborne appeared, but what came through them was incomparably grander.

A black dragon rose to the surface and floated above the water. It was the size of a whale. Its body was covered in interlocking black scales and gaping wounds, some still open but not bleeding. Its wings were made of steel, as were its teeth and fangs.

As for its eyes… They were orange, and large, and piercing enough to see through all souls. Simply hovering there, this creature emitted enough pressure to make even Axehand buckle. He stood so close he could reach its hind leg if he reached out, but he didn’t even try.

The dragon’s eyes surveyed the field, taking everything in almost curiously.

Nobody dared speak. Arakataron was the first, “Welcome back, great Desistos,” he said, bowing lightly. “My name is Arakataron, the last of a long series of Archmages who inherited your power. I have revived you.”

Jerry’s frown couldn’t be deeper. He’d known the identity of this dragon from the first moment he set eyes on its form. Desistos—the God of Death, the Death Primordial, one of the five ancient tyrants who’d disappeared during the Great Enigma.

“Well, it isn’t dead anymore,” he muttered. “Bummer.”

The black dragon’s eyes focused on the speaking Archmage, and its voice rumbled forth like the booms of a rolling storm, “What?”

Arakataron, facing the full brunt of a God’s stare, shivered.

“I have a deal to propose,” he said. “During the process of your revival, the Biomancy Archmage and I worked together to implant a slave seed inside you. Even a Primordial cannot remove it without destroying the soul, as I’m sure you know. It hasn’t taken effect yet since I was forced to accelerate the process, but it soon will, and at that time, you will become a slave to the organization called Wizard Order… unless we can strike a deal.”

The previous silence deepened. Even Ozborne couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Planning to turn a God into a slave was one thing, but threatening them to their face?

What arrogance! What hubris!

Meanwhile, Jerry’s head was in pain. Not only had he overexerted himself in the battle, but everything was happening too quickly. First, Ozborne the Cursed appeared out of nowhere, and now Desistos, the Death Primordial, had been reborn.

For a while now, Jerry had been aware that they’d barged into an extraordinary setting. where they normally had no business being. They’d stayed afloat for a while thanks to the Death Prism, and even defeated Arakataron, but the situation was spiraling out of control. There was only so much he could cheat. He could fight an Archmage, but he couldn’t fight a Primordial.

Still, he couldn’t help but admire Arakataron. Blackmailing a God took balls.

Desistos stared unflinchingly, not saying a single word. The pressure mounted until Arakataron spoke again.

“I have come into dire straits. These people have attacked and overpowered me. If you destroy them, I swear on my soul to alter your slave seed so that you are completely free, with the only constraint being that you will be unable to harm me directly. I only offer this because I am desperate, oh great Desistos…”

Desistos’s snout snarled. Jerry sighed. The black dragon blared in his spiritual perception like a literal sun, to the point where he was forced to retract it. Its entire body seemed made of death energy, and its every casual movement was able to split the air and demand worship.

He knew it was a God but hadn’t comprehended the extent of its power before. Now, he did. If it went against them, could they even escape?

If we split up, maybe… Jerry considered, but he lacked confidence. They would try, of course, but his instinct told him it was hopeless. He could sense the Primordial vying against the Prism for control of the death lake. The two felt similar in level, and it might have been a contest if the Prism wasn’t operating through such a weak medium. As it was, Desistos wasn’t even trying, and Jerry could feel the death lake slipping out of his grasp.

Still, not all was lost. Jerry was always groggy after a good night’s sleep, so maybe Desistos would feel the same after slumbering for half a millennium.

“We’re doomed…” Ozborne said, shaking his whale head with Jerry still on it.

“Hey, don’t drop me!”

Desistos was the Death Primordial, one of five that had ruled the world for millennia. Though their disappearance was a mystery, there were plenty of older records about their strength and personalities. Desistos was a cold, cruel, calculating monster.

Humans were to Desistos what ants were to humans. It had no concept of gratitude, honor, or mercy. It was a being which embodied the core qualities of necromancy, of life-and-death, of survival.

The deal Arakataron offered was well thought-out. If Desistos destroyed Jerry and the rest, it would be free. So what if Arakataron’s words were an insult? So what if he’d admitted to plotting against the black dragon?

In exchange for a God’s freedom, a few mortal lives and an insult were a tiny price to pay. Arakataron had even sworn on his soul that he would keep his end of the deal, and soul oaths were nigh unbreakable.

In the end, it could only be said that Desistos was lucky, and that Jerry and the rest were unlucky.

Desistos opened his jaws, “No.” He then raised a claw and, in a movement which seemed slow but inevitable, squashed the shocked Archmage into bone paste.

90

THE CHILD GOD

The silence over the death lake could be broken by a falling pin. Everyone simply waited. Desistos considered the situation, then turned to the soul whale. “What’s going on?”

It flinched. “Great Desistos, I have hidden in the death lake for a long time. I witnessed everything. The Wizard Order, a tyrant organization, have revived you but also planted a slave seed inside your heart. We defeated Arakataron—the person you just killed—and forced him to accelerate the ritual. As a result, you do not possess your full power, but the seed has also not taken effect yet.”

Mid-conversation, Desistos stopped listening. He was observing his own claw from all angles, as if inspecting it.

This is mine… he thought. I am a dragon. The God of Death. A Primordial. I am also Desistos… apparently. He looked at the humans, undead, and souls that stood before him. These little creatures are my servants. Why do their words confuse me?

“Dumb it down for me, whale,” he commanded, and the whale was visibly shocked. Did I say something wrong? Desistos wondered.

“Dumb it down?” The whale struggled to speak as if it had an aneurism.

“Forget about it. Just tell me… Who am I?”

The little creatures must be taking pleasure in their shock, as they’d been in that state all along. Unfortunately, Desistos didn’t care about their desires. “Stop standing around and speak.” He growled—they shuddered. Ah. Can they not stand my soul’s pressure?

He withdrew it, and the humans were able to breathe again. Their souls stopped shaking. Desistos’s attention flickered to the one behind him, the one which seemed to contemplate attacking him, but he paid no heed. If the little creature insulted him, he would just kill it, as he had with the talking skeleton.

“You are Desistos, the God of Death, the Death Primordial,” the whale replied reverently, and Desistos considered destroying it on the spot for wasting his time. He already knew all those… Then again, perhaps he was being too harsh. These creatures were in the presence of a God; how could their tiny minds move fast enough?

His dissatisfaction must have shown because one of the humans, the one who stood on the whale’s head, spoke up.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Desistos, I also get groggy after a good night’s sleep.”

“I was not asleep, tiny being. I was dead. Why are you informing me of your sleeping habits?”

“Well, I just thought that my undead are often confused when they first awaken, so maybe you feel the same. Are you okay?”

“I am a God. Of course I am okay.”

“If you say so. You sound odd, though. Are you missing any memories?”

The other creatures all looked at the speaker in absolute shock and horror, as they often did. However, as time went by and Desistos remained silent, their shock turned into incredulousness.

“You are correct,” he finally replied. “You say I have been revived, but I remember little. Explain.”

The tiny creature smiled, for some reason. “The past is overrated, anyway—don’t worry about it. You are Desistos, one of the five Primordials who ruled the world once upon a time. You all disappeared six hundred years ago for unknown reasons, and I don’t know about the others, but, apparently, you died.”

“Hmm,” Desistos mused. “Was I a good ruler?”

“Eh,” the tiny creature said, and one of the others—a skeleton—fell on its back as if it had a heart attack. Which was impossible, of course. It had no heart. “You were a bit tyrannical, but then again, who isn’t? Maybe history was unfair to you.”

“That is unfortunate. I want to know the truth so I can repeat it. I trust my previous self.”

“Well, you’re about to become a slave, so maybe it doesn’t matter.”

Desistos’s face darkened, inciting terror in most inferior hearts. His awareness dove into his body, scanning it with the absolute will of a God, and found the seed placed in his heart. It was both physical and magical, encapsulating his heart and soul, the dual core of his being.

Destroying it would be a simple matter, but it had been there for a long time. Its roots reached too deep. Removing it would mean destroying himself, and even a God’s soul wasn’t truly undying.

He could maintain his awareness for now, but the seed’s roots were spreading deeper with every passing moment. His revival had accelerated the process. He barely had a few hours of freedom before his soul succumbed.

How tragic. A God enslaved to a mortal.

“You are correct,” he replied. “I cannot remove the spell, but I do not wish to be a slave. You seem to know magic, little beings. Do you have a way to break this curse?”

The previous speaker thought for a bit, then said, “If you destroy the Wizard Order, there will be nothing to be enslaved to, right?”

Desistos considered it, then nodded. “A reasonable assumption. I shall uproot them completely.”

“Woohoo, great!” The tiny being, the only one that dared speak freely, cheered. Desistos found its tiny joys amusing. “If your godhood doesn’t mind, I have a suggestion for after that, too.”

“Speak.”

“Well, you see, the world is a wonderful place. After destroying the Wizard Order, how about you enjoy the scenery instead of ruling with an iron fist? I’ve heard there are flying whales, undead circuses, archipelagos with exploding birds, and many other beautiful sights. I know it’s difficult to adventure when you’re all-powerful, but you can still become a tourist.”

The other tiny creatures kept getting shocked, so Desistos ignored them completely—repetition was boring.

The suggestion sounded fine. His place was to rule the world, of course, but when one was immortal and nigh invincible, why rush? Why not enjoy himself first? The tiny creature had painted an interesting picture. Desistos should tour his domain before assuming leadership. He would enjoy it.

He had a suspicion of why he lacked memories. Perhaps his previous self had seen everything the world had to offer and got bored. Before dying, he could have wiped out his memories to allow himself to relive everything.

This suspicion was quickly refuted though. Desistos was a God. His soul would naturally disperse on death, and on revival, a new one would be formed by drawing in large amounts of ambient death energy. The new soul would be identical to the old one, just without its memories. After all, his soul was the essence of death magic, which was unchangeable over the eons.

In other words, the previous Desistos had died, and he now had a brand-new soul identical to the previous one at birth. He was a child again, armed with a basic understanding of the world and his place in it.

This was all very simple.

“Very well. If I can destroy the Wizard Order, then I shall tour the world,” he declared. Inwardly, he was excited. The world was intriguing, even for a God—after all, a place that could birth him would not be simple.

He also intended to find the others of his kind. Eternal loneliness would be unpleasant, and tiny beings could never be his equals.

“Excellent!” the amusing tiny being replied. “Wait… If?”

“Yes, if. The slave seed is rooted in my soul. If I can perceive the Wizard Order as still existing, I shall have to follow it. I must destroy its entirety in a matter of hours. A worthy challenge for a God.”

“I see… Then, you should probably hurry.”

“Tell me, tiny beings, where are the headquarters of this Wizard Order?”

The amusing tiny being looked troubled, but the whale spoke up, “If you head straight west, you will sense a large collection of magical power. That’s their headquarters; a cathedral on a hill. They also⁠—”

“Good.”

Desistos dipped his tail into the death lake below, and instantly, the entire world shuddered. The lake got sucked into his body at a surreal speed, completely drying up in a matter of seconds. A mile-wide crater was revealed, dotted with innumerable stone formations. A few were even carved into intricate statues, surrounding an area at the southeastern side, but Desistos only spared it a glance before turning westward. Without a word, he flapped his wings and took off.

In his mind, he had already forgotten about the tiny beings. They were completely inconsequential. He only hoped to destroy that puny organization in time so he could travel at ease. After all, the current Desistos was a newborn God, a child, and he was filled with curiosity.

He was excited to explore the world.

The Mists parted as Desistos flew. A few minutes later, he escaped them, found himself in clean air, and darted west at speeds unimaginable to most mortals.

Desistos’s wings carried such strength that their flapping shook everyone. They hadn’t even had time to recover from the near-instant dehydration of the death lake. Jerry had unsteady footing on the whale’s head and was sent flying. His landing on the rocks far below would not be pleasant, but Axehand jumped and caught him in time.

“Thanks, big guy,” he said. Axehand grunted.

“Kid!” Ozborne flew beside them as they landed on a stone island. Near the center of the lake, where they were, the crater extended two hundred feet down. “This is horrendous!”

“Hey, Ozborne.” Jerry smiled. “Horrendous? He’ll destroy the Wizard Order. That’s a good thing, right?”

“It’s a Primordial! A Primordial has been revived! This is disastrous. The world was in ruins when they ruled. If he destroys them, we’ll enter a dark era, and if he’s enslaved instead, the Wizard Order will finally achieve its goal and purge the world of non-wizards!”

“Oh,” Jerry said.

“Yes, oh. We should have stopped Arakataron. Dammit!”

The whale was extremely frustrated. Jerry couldn’t help but find it cute.

He had only known Ozborne for a minute or so, and that was in whale form and mid-combat, but he felt that Ozborne did not at all resemble the legendary wizard people had in their minds. He was fun to be around, easygoing, and full of rash feelings.

In fact, Jerry looked forward to getting to know him, if the opportunity arose.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Seeing the whale depressed, he put a hand on its enormous flap. “Don’t beat yourself up. We did our best.”

“Our best was not good enough.”

Axehand grunted in disdain.

“Your skeleton is disrespecting me, kid.”

“His name is Axehand,” Jerry replied, turning to Axehand. He listened to a message in his soul. “Hmm. Oh, I see. That’s a good idea.”

“What’s a good idea?” Horace asked, arriving at their side.

“Axehand says that, God or not, all problems will be solved if we kill him.”

“Kill!” Ozborne jerked away. “Kid, do you realize what you’re saying?”

“Yeah. I know he’s a God, and he seemed like an okay-ish person, but we can’t just let bad guys be. Still, Axehand was a bit absolute here… I don’t think we should kill him just because he’s strong. Maybe he’s a good guy, after all. Who knows?”

“It’s not our choice, kid. You do realize who you’re talking about.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, say you want to kill Desistos.” Ozborne steamed up. “How are you going to do that? He dried up the entire lake in a matter of seconds. That kind of energy is unfathomable. Then again, you obviously don’t think ahead, given how you spoke to a literal God.”

Axehand glared. By now, his overcharging was beginning to wear off, restoring his bones to the pristine white they usually were.

Horace—who’d leaped beside them—spoke up, “Jerry did think ahead. He saved our lives and sent Desistos to fight the Wizard Order. Given the situation, Jerry achieved a perfect result.”

Ozborne stayed silent.

“Exactly.” Jerry smiled. “Don’t take me for a fool, man. I’m a good guy, not a stupid guy. It all worked out.”

“I guess it did,” Ozborne grumbled.

“And, about Desistos… Since his memories are missing, he might develop differently than in the past. However, if he turns into a tyrant or is enslaved and used as a weapon, someone should do something about him.”

“Yeah. The Wizard Tower. They’re the rivals of the Wizard Order and possess two Archmages. If anyone can handle a rogue Desistos, it’s them.”

“Really? Where were they when Arakataron was reviving a God for fifty years and plunging the northern half of the continent into a death curse?”

Ozborne fell silent. Jerry kept speaking.

“I do not trust that Wizard Tower. If somebody has to have power, let it be us.”

“What power, kid? You have a Prism, but that was barely enough to defeat one Archmage, and only because we were in an area of extremely high-density death energy—otherwise, with your current skill, you couldn’t even use it at all. You’re strong, sure, but you can’t compare to a God.”

“No problem. If I’m not strong enough, I can just get stronger. And, if one Prism isn’t enough, we’ll gather two. If two aren’t enough, let’s gather all of them!”

“Gather the Prisms?”

“Yes! Dorman did it, so we can, too—and, with so much power, I’m sure we’ll find a way to make things right.”

“Would you consider giving me the Prism?” Ozborne asked. “I could use it much more effectively than you can. That kind of power could help us massively against the Order.”

“I couldn’t if I wanted to. The Prism has its own mind, and I can feel it wants to stay with me. Sorry. I’d also appreciate if you didn’t tell people about it—one wizard organization coming after me is enough.”

Ozborne laughed before his eyes grew conflicted. “I have to admit, having the divine object of all necromancers within my grasp and letting it go feels unsatisfactory… but, I get it.”

Jerry’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It is not within your grasp, Ozborne.”

“I know.”

“Can you stay silent about it?”

“I can. Until this information becomes relevant to the Wizard Tower, I will not tell anyone. Consider it payment for reviving me—which you still have to do, by the way. Still, gathering the Prisms… Do you understand what kind of concept that is? I’ve been eavesdropping on Arakataron all along; the entire world has been searching for centuries, but only two of the Prisms have been found, excluding yours. What makes you think you can find the rest?”

“Because we have a clue. Where the sun shines brightest, on the tallest peak, in the helmet of the king is the Prism you seek.”

“What’s that?”

“It was written in a journal where we found the Prism. It was from one of Dorman’s companions. According to the journal, they hid the Prisms around the world in case the Primordials ever rose again, and it seems that each Prism is accompanied by a riddle pointing to the next one.”

“Are you planning to go around the world collecting Prisms?” Horace asked.

“Yes. We just need to decrypt the riddle.”

“It’s simple. It points to the Cloud Sea,” Ozborne said. “Where the sun shines brightest, on the tallest peak… That sounds pretty clear to me, given that the Cloud Sea is the only place in the world that’s above the clouds, and so where the sun shines brightest. It’s blinding up there. Plus, the Cloud Sea is atop a giant beanstalk in the middle of the Jewel Sea—that’s easily the world’s tallest peak. I don’t know about the second half of your riddle, but you can work it out once you’re there.”

“The companion of Dorman we found was also from there,” Jerry said. “It’s settled, then. Our next destination will be the Cloud Sea. And, if that Prism is taken, let’s hope the riddle to the next one is intact.”

“Don’t count on it,” Ozborne said. “If it was this easy, all Prisms would have been found already. How did you discover this one, anyway?”

“Marcus found the riddle that led us here in a pyramid at the Sea of Sands,” Jerry said. “That place was probably also the location of a Prism, but it must have been discovered before and resealed. Actually, it’s probably one of the two Prisms that have been found. Who has them?”

“The Wizard Order has one, and the Tower another,” Ozborne said, “but I don’t know which ones they are.”

“Very well. Then, let’s head directly for the Cloud Sea. How lucky that we have an airship. Are you coming, Ozborne?”

The whale shook its head. “I’m too old for these things. I don’t fancy your chances of success either. When you revive me, as you promised, I will go to the Wizard Tower and inform them of what’s going on, though they should know most of it already.”

“They know? How?”

“Sense the magic, kid. Even you should be able to. There can only be one Archmage at a time for each school of magic, and Arakataron just died. The essence of necromancy is back in the world and up for the taking.”

Jerry closed his eyes. He did feel something different, a sensation which had been present since the very moment Arakataron got squashed. The magic in the air felt more active; fuller, in a way, as if it contained some power that could be grasped, if only you knew how.

The race for Archmage was on.

“I see,” he said, reopening his eyes. “They know Arakataron is dead, and I suppose Desistos won’t be too discreet either.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, suit yourself, Ozborne. I’ll revive you in a moment.” He turned to Horace. “What about you, Horace? Will you join us?”

Jerry asked this question with hope. Unlike Ozborne, he was already friends with Horace and really wanted him to come along. He knew that Horace wanted to join, too; he’d been enjoying himself during the entire trip, despite the life-threatening dangers, and Jerry understood he’d been bottling up his desires for a very long time before they met him.

Horace wanted to travel and see the world, as he’d said. He yearned for it deeply. If they could go together, that would be ideal, but…

Horace hesitated before shaking his head. “Impossible. I would love to come, but I have a duty to protect my people. Now that Arakataron is dealt with, so is the greatest danger to my tribe. I must return to them.”

“Don’t do that, my friend,” Jerry said. Horace was putting his chains back on, and he could never remove them again. “Don’t imprison yourself. You’ll never get another opportunity like this.”

Horace, however, was resolute. “Don’t push me, Jerry. My duty is above my personal desires. I cannot.”

Jerry sighed. He closed his eyes, then reopened them. His heart ached for Horace, but…

“Very well. We’ll drop you off on the way.”

91

BIRTH OF THE DEATH HUNTER

Jericho was going to die. For real, this time.

Not because they’d lose the fight. The wraith was strong, but the four of them combined could take her. No; he would die when they won. Maccain would replace him with the wraith.

He always sought balance in his collection. He liked water spirits, probably for the versatility of their powers. When Jerry Shoeson destroyed the previous one, Maccain had taken a three-day detour to acquire Lela.

Gorgon had been the group’s heavy hitter, and Maccain replaced him with Bogdanov, an even stronger heavy hitter.

Jericho was the main melee fighter. However, the wraith they were facing, this crimson-eyed, sword-wielding woman, was a better melee fighter. She was fast, skilled, and strong. It was only thanks to the support of both Bogdanov and Lela, as well as the intermittent soul attacks from his master, that Jericho could stand his own.

Of course, Jericho wasn’t too focused, either. This wraith was just a better version of himself. As soon as they won, Maccain would destroy him.

Jericho was fighting the wraith, but the real battle was in his mind.

I don’t want to die! he cried out mentally. He gritted his teeth. Unfortunately, there was no choice; as an undead, his orders were absolute. He had to win.

He spared a look behind him. Maccain was there, hiding in the shadows with that cruel, calculating glint in his eyes. The glint that would abandon Jericho in the blink of an eye, just like Gaia had.

Help me! he cried out. Mother! Save me, Mother!

Unfortunately, Gaia had already forsaken him. He was an undead now, one of her enemies. His remaining powers were limited; every time he used them, part of his blood turned from green to black. Soon, Jericho would run out, and then he’d be a magicless brawler who couldn’t even read. It was understandable that Maccain wanted to replace him.

And that axe-handed skeleton of Jerry Shoeson had cleaved off an arm. Jericho had lost most of his magic right there; green blood had rushed out, and when his body produced it anew, it was black.

A burst of anger overtook him, followed by despair.

Mother! his thoughts cried out again. Help me, Mother! I don’t want to be dead or undead! I want to be one with you!

But, why would she help me?

The thought came unbidden. Even mid-battle, Jericho frowned in thought. He’d done nothing to earn back her favor. He’d willingly served a necromancer for weeks. Why would she assist? Overwhelming shame flooded him.

Maybe Mother was watching, trying to see if I was worthy… and I was not. She did not abandon me. I abandoned her.

The realization crushed his soul. It was so harsh that he got distracted, and the wraith slashed her swords against his chest, sending him flying. Only his hard, bark-like skin saved him, but relief turned to horror as he saw green drops fly out and wet the soil.

“NO!” he yelled.

You idiot, Maccain’s voice echoed in his mind. Focus. Spend all your remaining earth magic and defeat the enemy.

Jericho chuckled grimly as he rolled on the ground. Of course, his master would command that. Jericho would be gone after this battle. Why conserve any power?

He stood up, unable to disobey. His remaining green blood ignited, empowering him with the strength of the earth. Green vines rumbled under his feet. The wraith narrowed her eyes, keeping her attention on him as she easily dodged Bogdanov’s attacks.

Jericho laughed darkly. How had things reached this point? He’d had everything. Then, a necromancer appeared and killed him—Jerry Shoeson. Another necromancer raised him—Maccain Darkson—forcing him to betray his mother and live an unlife of slavery. Now, the same necromancer was forcing him to burn the last remains of his connection to Mother before crumbling forever.

Fuck necromancers, Jericho thought. His rage grew and flared.

“Master!” he cried out between gritted teeth. “Empower me! I will burn all my power and win!”

No response came his way, but he felt the familiar rush of power. Darkness filled his body as he began to steam. When the river of power was reduced to a trickle, Jericho tried to pull more—Maccain refused.

That was fine. It was enough.

Vines broke through the ground and gathered around Jericho’s hand, forming a large, spiked spear. The wraith disengaged and got ready to dodge. Jericho stared her in the eye, turned around, and launched his spear at the shadows where Maccain hid.

It tore clean through his chest, blasting it apart. The necromancer was left staring wide-eyed, and every single undead, including the wraith, froze.

Maccain looked at Jericho in disbelief. He opened his mouth, but only blood came out. His eyes were full of dreams and plots turning into dust.

Maccain collapsed. At the same time, all three of his undead were released from their bindings, but Jericho could already feel the power of death bloating in his soul. Reanimation was a soul contract enforced by necromancy itself. Attacking your necromancer was breaking the contract, and the punishment was swift and absolute.

Jericho didn’t care. He was going to die anyway; at least now, he’d repaid his mother—Gaia, the goddess of earth and life—for everything she’d given him.

Goodbye, Mother.

He closed his eyes. Just as the power of death ballooned and was about to explode, another power invaded his body from the soles of his feet. Jericho found himself staring at a tremendously large green and blue sphere, and he felt his body flooded with power.

His joy was indescribable. He laughed. “Mother! You’re back!”

He connected to the earth again. Instantly, every drop of blood in his body turned green, and while his feet touched the ground, he had access to unlimited energy.

A hint of gold entered through his feet, flashed to his soul, grabbed the soul contract, and tore it apart. The power dissipated, and Jericho was free. No, not just free; he was whole again.

As his powers returned, so did his confident, commanding smile. He understood why Gaia saved him. He knew how to thank her. His path was clear.

“Bogdanov, Lela,” he said. “You are now free. I will not control you like Maccain, but I will offer you a choice—you too, wraith. You have seen the evils of necromancy. Join me, and together, we will rid the world of necromancers.”

A green aura blazed around his body as if to enhance his words, and the undead gazed at him inscrutably. Lela was the first to kneel. “I will follow you, Master,” she declared.

“Not master. Call me boss. And the next time I hear you lick someone’s boots like the submissive bitch you are, I will tear you limb from limb. Got it?”

She shivered. “I got it, boss.”

Jericho smiled. It felt good to be back.

Bogdanov was the next to kneel, his weight shaking the ground. Jericho nodded his way, then turned to the wraith.

“What about you? I can see you’re intelligent. Will you join us or keep wandering these empty lands?”

She considered it. Wild undead, even intelligent ones, felt an instinctive repulsion toward living beings. However, right now, all of them were undead. The wraith licked her lips, and under her dusted, straight, gray hair, she nodded.

She sheathed her sword.

“My name is Yorna,” she spoke for the first time, revealing a time-tested, hardened voice, “and my sword is yours.” She fell to a knee.

Jericho smiled. He’d freed himself, won back Gaia’s favor, and acquired three powerful followers. Moreover, he had a clear path before him. Things were looking up.

“Good,” he said. “The Academy is too strong for us right now. We’ll go south. Maccain had information on the locations of other necromancers, and I know it as well. We will pick them off one by one, then head to the Three Kingdoms.”

“Yes, boss,” Lela replied, and all three of them stood, ready to follow him.

They turned southeast and started walking, crossing the barren plains of the Dead Lands. Though it hadn’t taken a minute when something changed. The world shook. Jericho looked up to see a colossal black dragon fly past at incomprehensible speed, heading in the Academy’s direction.

“What the fuck?” he asked, turning around. They weren’t too far away.

A tremendous roar shook the world. A large black sphere towered to the heavens, swallowing the Academy that was visible on the horizon, and when it receded, the cathedral had been reduced to rotting rumble.

A second roar filled the skies as the dragon turned southwest, disappearing from Jericho’s vision.

He shivered. That thing was so powerful it completely upturned his understanding of the world’s power scale. He had no idea what it was, but it wielded death energy. Was it a necromancer’s mount? Had the Necromancy Archmage turned against the Order? Had the Headmaster and Heralds been absent, for some reason, or were they so easily annihilated?

Jericho didn’t know, but at the same time, he recognized when something was beyond his power. He was a bandit at heart.

“Ignore it,” he told his followers. “Whatever that thing is, it doesn’t concern us. Let’s not approach. Our plan remains as is.”

His three followers spared the horizon another glance before assenting, “Yes, boss.”

And on they went to hunt necromancers. Jericho smiled, and the Death Hunter was born.

EPILOGUE

GOODBYE, HORACE

The wind ruffled Jerry’s hair as he lounged on his heavenly soft chair, watching the clouds roll by above. Behind him, the airship was as lively as ever. The Billies climbed up and down the sails, making minute adjustments as Marcus instructed; Laura was performing water shows for Boboar and Foxy, who never got bored of them; Headless and Boney were playing checkers; Axehand sat on the prow, drinking; and finally, Horace stood on the crow’s nest above the hot air balloon, using his sharp eyes to survey the horizon.

As for Jerry, he simply enjoyed the breeze.

Nobody would imagine that this varied, carefree airship crew had recently watched the revival of a God. No, not just watched—they participated in it, as well as lived to tell the tale.

Only Ozborne was missing from the airship. After Jerry provided him with enough energy to partially revive through a complex spell—that Jerry also got a copy of—Ozborne had reappeared as the ghost of an old man. The top of his head was bald, letting straight white hair drop from his temples to his shoulders. His eyes were blue and his face kind, while he wore a set of black-and-white, intricate robes.

He seemed like a good person, and after a brief conversation, Jerry decided he liked him. Unfortunately, Ozborne still refused to join them. He’d go to the Wizard Tower of Erland instead, at the capital of the Moonlight Kingdom, to the west of Escarbot. They’d offered to give him a ride, but he wanted to inspect the broken Curse core first, so they’d dropped him off at the Prism Dungeon.

He’d make his own way to Moonlight.

Laura and Marcus had both agreed to join Jerry’s Prism crusade. Laura was still driven by revenge against the Wizard Order, and following Jerry was the best way to achieve it—if the Wizard Order still stood after the Desistos calamity, but everyone agreed it probably would.

Not only had the Order sensed Desistos’s revival shortly after it happened—as had every necromancer—and so had time to flee or scatter, but their operations were also spread across various continents. Of the two remaining Archmages who belonged to the Wizard Order, one was in the faraway Jewel Archipelago, and even Desistos couldn’t make it there in a matter of hours.

They just hoped he’d kill the Biomancy Archmage before turning into a slave, or at least destroy a good number of wizards and the Order’s foundations.

Anything else was just a pipe dream. Even Gods weren’t omnipotent.

“With a Primordial under their control, the Wizard Order will be able to dominate the world,” Ozborne had explained. “They won’t move immediately, given what Desistos will do to them before the slave seed takes effect, but it won’t be too long. With a Primordial at the helm, many wizards will convert to the Order, and the Tower and mundane kingdoms will soon be left defenseless. That’s when they will strike.”

The storm is on the horizon, and our time is running out… Jerry thought, watching the sky meet the earth at the edge of his vision.

Ozborne’s words only stressed the importance of Jerry’s plan succeeding. They needed to find the Prisms, as many as possible, before the war truly began. If the Order won, a new era would begin—the Wizard World—and all the non-wizards would suffer.

Jerry didn’t intend to let that happen. He’d met many wonderful people with no magic powers; they didn’t deserve to die. In his heart, he was convinced the Order was wrong.

He turned his gaze northwest, where their next destination lay. Ozborne would contact the Tower, tell them everything they needed to know, and help them delay the Order’s expansion for as long as possible. Meanwhile, Jerry would focus on the Prisms.

Well, not just them… Jerry thought. For the first time in a while, his belly was filled with fire. First Maccain, then Arakataron had shown him how inexperienced he still was with necromancy. He had so much to learn. Thankfully, he knew exactly how to do it. The Introduction to Necromancy rested in his lap, with a bookmark where he’d last left off.

Jerry’s eyes sparked. I’ll study, I’ll practice, and I’ll improve until I reach the level of Archmages. My journey to the top is long, but it begins now!

The death lake had been absorbed into Desistos, and the Curse irreparably broken. The Mists of Death would dissipate with time. The soul fish had been released, finally achieving the eternal rest that had been stolen from them. Shelia’s body had been buried deep in a nameless expanse, ensuring she would never be defiled—they’d only kept her journal, which Laura carried in a pocket.

There was nothing holding them back now. The Cloud Sea awaited.

Well… actually, there was one last thing.

The airship lost altitude as they approached a dense forest. “Front right,” Horace said, his sharp eyes making out the forms hiding in the trees. They landed in a clearing, and a team of warriors jumped out of the nearby bushes.

They held spears, but as soon as they saw who rode the airship, they exclaimed in joy.

“Horace! You’re back!”

Horace jumped down from the crow’s nest and landed before them. He spread his arms out. “I have returned, everyone!” he yelled, a big, forced smile on his face. The Akshik tribespeople rushed at him, but all at once, they stopped.

One after another, whispers ran through them as they glanced at Horace.

“Hmm?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

A series of complicated stares fell on him, and in the end, the villagers did not approach. His spread arms found no one to hug.

Horace’s face went dark as everyone on the ship looked at each other with puzzlement. Only Marcus and Jerry had an idea of what was going on, glancing at each other.

“Come with us, Horace,” they said. “The tribe must speak to you.”

“Is something wrong?”

“It is not our place to tell you. Follow us. Your companions can come, too.”

Horace was clearly worried, but complied. They crossed a forest of dead trees and wilted bushes, met groups of docile undead animals. This place was very different from the swamp, the Akshik tribe’s previous place of residence. It felt safe. Here, there were no crocodiles trying to eat them, no treacherous fauna hiding in low branches. They should have migrated a long time ago.

The forest opened into another clearing, hidden under thick branches and remnants of foliage, where the new Akshik tribe stood. They were already constructing their huts and setting up their circles, preparing themselves for the long, peaceful, never-changing years that would follow.

Only a single hut was complete, and its windows were covered in wooden planks.

As soon as Horace arrived, whispers spread through the village like wildfire. Everyone looked at him with emotions that were hard to decipher, even with his sharp eyes, and black snakes wrapped around his heart. What was going on?

“Horace.” His name traveled from lip to lip as the complicated gazes moved from him to the single complete hut. The hut’s entrance flap was pulled open, and a woman older than death stood on the threshold, only a line of shadow protecting her from the weak sunlight which was enough to harm her.

“Granny…” Horace said, and his breath caught in his throat. Even she frowned at him. He gulped. “What the hell is going on?” This was wrong. Everything was wrong. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Hello, Horace,” Granny said. “What happened outside?”

“We won,” he replied. “We killed Arakataron, threw the Wizard Order into enough disarray that they won’t have time to trouble us, and even broke the Curse. There are some new complications, but nothing that we need to worry about. The outside world will deal with it.”

Relief washed through the black eyes of the tribespeople, some even breaking into tears at the good news. However, everyone still held themselves back, even the tearful ones. They didn’t show Horace the gratitude and warmth he expected.

“Granny,” he said, his voice harsh, “what’s going on?”

“The tribe discussed this at length, Horace. We walked alone through danger after you left, and while we faced danger, nobody died. We realized we do not need your protection. Therefore, the Akshik tribe has decided. You are stripped of your duty as the tribe’s guardian and exiled.”

Her words fell like an anvil. Behind him, Laura and all the undead stared in shock.

Exiled?

“Exiled!” Horace boomed. “Stripped of my duties? Bullshit! Are you all mind-controlled by the Wizard Order?”

“It is our decision, Horace,” Granny hammered the nail in. “Unanimously.”

“Unanimously!”

Rage and incomprehension mounted in his heart, but when he saw the eyes of the tribespeople, everything stilled. They were hard. Resolute. Horace struggled to comprehend and found himself unable to.

“You can’t do this to me,” he said, stepping back. “It has to be a lie. This makes no sense. You told me to go!”

“You no longer belong to the Akshik tribe, Horace,” Granny said sternly, ignoring his words. “Leave immediately.”

“What—No! You can’t do this to me! What the hell is happening? Did you all go insane!”

His agitation was evident. He felt lost, confused, and cheated. He balled his fists and glared around. Some of the villagers stared at him sternly, but most evaded his sight. Horace caught a woman’s gaze breaking before she turned away, her strictness faltering as she bit her lips. She trembled in her husband’s arms, who stared down Horace.

“Leave, Horace,” he said. “You have no place here anymore.”

“You are no longer our guardian.”

“We don’t need you.”

“Just go.”

Horace was trapped in a nightmare. All around him, the people he’d lived with for half a century were abandoning him. He wanted to shake them into reason.

“Master…” Boney whispered at the back, his voice trembling. “Should we…”

“No.” Jerry shook his head. His eyes had tears, but a hint of sweetness too. “Don’t you see what they are doing, Boney? They’re not abandoning him. They’re setting him free.”

Boney was stunned. He understood. He grabbed Laura’s shivering arm and signaled her to wait.

“Fuck you all!” Horace exploded. “Is this how you repay me for everything I’ve done for you? You want to throw fifty years down the shithole? Was everything a lie? Was our relationship this fragile? Are you completely stupid!”

More people were turning away, unable to look at him anymore, but those who remained were resolute.

“Leave, Horace,” a man said—the lead painter.

“I considered you my closest friend, Eredon. I cared for you when you were sick. I saved your wife’s life! Is this how it all ends?”

“Just leave.”

Horace looked at his best friend and found no compassion, no solace. He clenched his fists so hard that nails dug into his palms. His eyes misted over.

“Fine!” he shouted, turning away. “Have it your way, you pathetic clump of losers. I don’t need you either. I can live just fine without you, more than fine! I can finally live for myself!” He walked toward Jerry’s group, gaze straight ahead. When he looked at Jerry, he noticed that his eyes were strange, too. Horace froze.

Oh.

All tension left his body. He turned around to find a group of people still glaring at him. And the moment they saw he understood, their features were flushed with relief, and their faces were full of tears and smiles.

“Everyone…” Horace muttered. “You…”

“We’ve been keeping you hostage for no reason, Horace…” the lead painter said. “We are deeply sorry. You deserve better than this.”

“It is time, Horace,” Granny said, her voice shaky. Her stony face melted into tenderness. “Time for you to spread your wings. We will be fine. We all know how much you wanted to leave this place, how trapped you felt, and how heavy that duty was for you… Now, your duty as guardian is gone. You are exiled. We are no longer holding you back. Just go.”

“Granny… that’s just stupid. You think I’ll abandon you all and go have fun?”

“You don’t have a choice. You are exiled. If you stay, none of us will ever talk to you again.”

“Are you serious?”

He looked deep into their black eyes, hardened by the Curse and softened by fifty years of peace, and saw that they were serious. They meant it. They weren’t giving him a choice.

“Would you really want to stay?” Granny asked.

Horace looked to Jerry and the rest, who all smiled and nodded. “You have a good family, Horace,” Jerry said. Axehand grunted and raised his flask. Laura failed to hold her tears. Marcus smiled widely.

That this was happening finally hit Horace. It was over.

Against himself, his heart was filled with immeasurable relief and happiness. He loved his people but had dreaded every step that brought him back to this prison. In the brief time he adventured with Jerry’s group, he enjoyed every single moment so very much. He hated to be back, but would never shy away from his duty. He owed it to them, and he loved them.

For them, he was willing to sacrifice himself. Apparently… so were they.

His heart grew lighter than ever. Black tears escaped his eyes as his legs gave way.

“THANK YOU!” he shouted with all the power in his lungs, banging his forehead against the ground. “THANK YOU FOR ACCEPTING ME! THANK YOU FOR FORGIVING ME! THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING! I… I WILL NEVER FORGET YOU!”

His black tears dyed the ground below, and so did the tribe’s. Every single one of them was crying.

“We should be the ones thanking you. Live a happy life, Horace…” Granny said between smiling sobs. “If you ever come by this area again…” her voice broke, “…pay us a visit. Okay?”

“THANK YOU!” Horace yelled again, and he cried for the fifty years he’d bottled up, for all the nights he’d spent looking at the horizon and stars, at the open sky. For the fifty years he’d spent forcing himself into a life he hated, because duty was above all.

Granny looked at Jerry. “Take good care of him.”

Jerry smiled back. “He can take care of himself, but we’ll be there for him. This, I swear.” Everyone smiled too.

And, just like that, Horace joined the group. Their next destination… the Cloud Sea!

Good Guy Necromancer continues in The Flight of Jerry

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