"Tax collectors?" Jerry stood up. "What—"

  "Quick!" Horace bolted upright, his voice suddenly 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 into 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?" he asked. "What tax collectors? Why are we hiding?"

  "I will explain everything," the woman replied, glancing back at him, "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," she replied. "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 towards 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 wary gazes until it reached the ground and landed gently. The man above it 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.

  He smiled.

  "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 seemed to struggle with his words. The death knight, who still stood beside him, turned to regard 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!"

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "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 cupped his chin.

  "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?" he asked.

  "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 mid-air 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, but nobody dared to even breathe loudly. However, 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. Instead, 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?" he said. Another flash left his finger, penetrating one of Horace’s legs, but the photomancer’s eyes were still elsewhere. He frowned.

  So did Jerry. Birb had followed the wizard’s gaze, and it had noticed something reflecting the photomancer’s flash; something that shouldn’t exist in this dark, dirty swamp.

  Suddenly, the blond man’s grin blossomed with wickedness. "Well, well, well," he said, "what do we have here?"

  He finally 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, but he still 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 and slammed his face hard into the ground.

  Jerry tensed up; 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!"