Archmage Aracataron’s skull face appeared in a circular portal, and everyone froze in terror.

“Who are you?” he asked coldly. “And why are your zombies holding my grandson?”

By now, Jerry’s previous anger had already been vented, and his head was mostly clear. He blinked. What’s that?

He had no idea who or what this person was—a skeleton mage, maybe?—but they sounded extremely strong. They were called an Archmage, and they controlled a death knight who could fight an overcharged Axehand…moreover, everyone seemed absolutely terrified.

And Jerry was holding that person’s grandson hostage.

Oh no, this can’t be good... What is happening? I need to earn some time.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “are you aware that you are trapped in a circle?”

The skull was already staring at Jerry, everybody else too scared to intervene.

“Are you mocking me?” asked the Archmage.

“Of course not.”

The Archmage ignored Jerry.

“You possess a death knight capable of defeating one of mine,” he spoke slowly. “You are clearly a strong 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, uh…” Jerry scratched his head, looking between the demanding skull-wizard and the cocky photomancer, who by now seemed certain of his safe escape. However, Jerry wasn’t an idiot; if he let the photomancer go like this, the tribe might come into huge trouble. He muttered, “I don’t think I can do that, sir.”

The silence somehow deepened. The skull frowned.

“What did you just say?” it asked.

“Oh, sorry,” he replied, before repeating in a louder voice, “I don’t think I can do—”

A thought interrupted him midway. 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 frowned. Right. There’s no use delaying because nobody will come save us. I must handle this…but how?

The tribespeople were deathly afraid of the Wizard Order’s retaliation, to the point where they bowed down to an incredibly offensive tax collector—and Jerry had just offended someone referred to as an Archmage.

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 almost comically arrogant prick would certainly 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.

If he didn’t let go, that would be blatantly disregarding 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 this his fault?

How can I save them? There has to be a way!

“Well?” asked the skull.

Jerry turned to stare at it, taking a deep breath. The tribespeople gazed at him with accusation and despair. 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 tribesmen 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, thought Jerry, narrowing his eyes. If there’s no way out or back…the only way is forward.

Jerry felt this was all his fault, and he wanted to save the tribe no matter what. 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.

He would take the full blame for everything.

Of course, that included killing the photomancer to prevent him from revealing anything, and only an insane, completely unreasonable person would do that in the presence of an Archmage—whatever that meant. Therefore, Jerry had to act unreasonable, and what better way to do that than insult an all-powerful being right in its face?

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, skull-face. 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.”

Jerry smirked as he provoked this unquestionably strong necromancer, but on the inside, he was shivering. If his plan worked, 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 the only people who’d ever been kind to him; he would save them, no matter what.

So what if they chase me like a rabbit? He grinned; warm, fuzzy excitement filled his chest, and his eyes widened. This is what I want to do! Screw the consequences!

“Do you understand who I am?” asked Aracataron.

“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 here, you think you can step on 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 Archmage refused to give way either. “The Wizard Order does no 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!” it shouted. Jerry paused.

“Oh,” he said, “is this business?”

“Release him this instant, blasphemer!” said Aracataron, and the portal seemed to shake 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 fall to the ground and die.

For the first time, Jerry realized that perhaps souls could cross the portal, and he almost shat bricks. Fortunately, he kept channeling his inner villain.

“I do what I want,” he replied. A clenched fist—Headless’s—smacked the photomancer at the side of the head, sending several perfect teeth rolling in the mud.

The lich’s face contorted in anger. “Don’t you dare!” it shouted.

“I fucking 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 son!” Jerry laughed. “A hair, you say?”

Darkness escaped Jerry’s body to attack the photomancer, who struggled to escape with everything he had. His eyes looked at the lich as he let out desperate, muffled sounds.

“NO!” Aracataron 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, and the man’s body fell lifeless on the ground.

“See, Archmage?” asked Jerry. “I didn’t touch a single hair.”

Aracataron 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!”

“So many words, and so few actions!” Jerry laughed uproariously, surprising even himself. “You make all these threats, but you’re actually full of shit!”

“You—Nobody has ever spoken to me this way, 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!” shouted Jerry. “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, skull-face! Your Wizard Order has disrespected me, so I will destroy it! I, Jerry Goodguy,” he shouted at the top of his lungs, face contorting into a snarl, “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? The insanity! Just who do you think you are?”

Suddenly, its eyes focused.

“Do you really take me for a fool? I see what you are doing, wizardling. You were a guest of this tribe when my grandson arrived, 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 not a fool.

“You can run, if you want, and the entire Wizard Order will be ordered to kill you on sight. Sooner or later, we will find you. As for this Akshik tribe, they can neither run nor hide! My army will raze the entire swamp to the ground, torture every last 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 Aracataron!”

Jerry was floored, though he tried not to show it. His guilt was crushing. Had his plan failed?

He had only tried to help…but would all these people die because of him? Suddenly, his chest felt empty and cold, but he quickly regathered himself. It didn’t matter what he did; he had to fix this, no matter what. It was too late to back off.

“You run your mouth too much,” he retorted. “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, but you’ll still be obliterated.”

“Ridiculous!” The lich laughed again, consumed by abject rage. “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 of yours a swift death. Delay for even an hour…and they will suffer the worst fate imaginable, all because of you.”

“Hmph. Of course, I will come! Just tell me where you are.”

“The Mists of Death.” The lich’s skull warped to form a grin. “I’ll be waiting for the proof of your cowardice. Do you dare tell me your real name?”

“I already did,” replied Jerry, banging his chest. “I’m Jerry Goodguy.”

“What kind of name is that?”

“It’s better than your tongue-twister.” Jerry crossed his arms. “Fine then. Just wait there for me, skull-face. 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. For a moment, everything stood still—and then, Jerry fell on his knees, smashing his forehead against the ground.

“I’m sorry!” he cried out loud. “I’m sorry!”

The death spirits remained quiet. Bitter stares of accusation rained on Jerry, but he kept his forehead on the ground. “This is all my fault!” he said. “I… I didn’t know. I’m sorry!”

Marcus and Laura stepped out of a hut, staying back and watching things unfold with conflicted eyes—they wouldn’t speak yet. Boney walked by Jerry and also kneeled on the ground, as did all of Jerry’s undead, except for Axehand.

The tribespeople were clearly full of thoughts, but they remained quiet. 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.

“I know. I—”

“Would you have sacrificed Granny?” asked Boney, not raising his head. Horace turned his stare over. Boney continued, “My Master acted rashly, but he did the right thing. Would you have let that person 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,” said Jerry. “What’s done is done. Let me fix 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 might be strong, but you’re nothing compared to him.”