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 non-existent, as all strong creatures knew to avoid the tribe’s grounds. As for those that didn’t, they quickly 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 had 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 each seemed 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 seemed trustworthy.

  Sometimes, Jerry felt that 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 had been 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, but this time, 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 further. 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 eyes narrowed and his 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 for a moment, then tsked as he sat back down.

  "You win," he declared begrudgingly, and the entire audience erupted into cheers again, this time 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 life-like 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 had deemed it passable.

  That was a huge success—and, though Axehand would never show it, he was proud of himself.

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  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 shave somewhere around now. 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 eventually 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 looked around, finding 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 for a moment.

  “You have a point,” Jerry finally said. “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."

  Jerry did not reply for a while.

  "I see," was all he said, but he meant it. He understood. "On the bright side, this place is not that bad."

  Horace chuckled. "I don’t dislike it, but…" He shook his head. "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 towards 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 for a long moment, with only the excited, cheerful voices reaching them from across the campfire. Eventually, 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 that 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 that 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!"