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 deeply in the giant’s stomach—the highest part he could reach.

The giant reeled, its pale skin going taut 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 for a moment before falling to a knee. It dropped its club. Jericho reached up to grab 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 reached out a hand to stop 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 as 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. His master didn’t want surrender.

Opposite Jericho, Gorgon the ogre raised his big club up high and, with a sickening grin, brought it down. The giant’s head caved in, and it stilled.

Jericho shook his head. This creature, the bane of all nearby hordes, had been demolished just like that.

“Good job,” a voice came from the shadows. Sakalai 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 towards the giant’s corpse, “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 kept him around—unlike a certain someone.

Maccain approached Gorgon, and Jericho chuckled grimly. The dim-witted brute stood proudly over the corpse. 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.

Mccain then turned to the cloud giant. “Arise,” he said. The giant shook, then pushed against the ground to stand. Everyone’s heads rose with him.

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. “So, you lost your memories, too… 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 slowly but 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 Sakalai. 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 that, 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 looking for stronger undead to replace the ones in his collection.

When Jericho had joined, Maccain had forsaken a sword-wielding undead. When the previous water spirit fell fighting Jerry Shoeson, Maccain had assaulted and defeated a necromancer close to Edge, stealing his 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 forgot about his summoning and spent two days looking for the cloud giant. Finally, 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 in 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 Academy was a towering cathedral standing on a lonely hill in the northwestern 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 the courtyard, 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.

As darkness fell, the dark, imposing cathedral took on a sinister hue, and the gargoyles seemed far more intimidating.

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 mundanes 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 Sakalai 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.”

Maccain focused on this arrogant person. He disdained to respond. Bogdanov, sitting on the ground behind him, couldn’t respond if he wanted to. Only Lela, the water spirit that completed Maccain’s current collection, spoke up. She was the most submissive bitch Jericho had ever seen—or, 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, thought Jericho, 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, seeming satisfied. Jericho’s growing irritation calmed slightly, but he knew it was only temporary. Since they’d arrived at the Academy and Maccain left them here to visit the Headmaster, everyone seemed intent on using them to approach him.

It wasn’t a bad idea. It was 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 Sakalai had arrived: an old man with a walking cane and no undead around him, as well as a wizard death spirit, a young woman of extreme beauty surrounded by death knights. It was these death knights that drew a lot of aspiring social butterflies, but none was as responsive as Lela.

Once again, Jericho looked at her with irritation.

Maccain returned just then with a thoughtful look on his face. Jericho heaved a sigh of relief. As much as he hated the man, he at least served as protection against annoyances.

“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 realized, gazing at her. If she shared the thought, she didn’t show it.

“That is wonderful, Master,” she spoke again. “The Headmaster apparently recognized your greatness and summoned you here to take 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 Sakalai 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 not 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 respect and fear, 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?

***

Jericho was going to die. For real, this time.

Not because they would lose the fight. The wraith was extremely strong, but the four of them combined could hold her back quite reliably. 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 had destroyed the previous one, Maccain had taken a three-day detour to acquire Lela.

Gorgon had been the group’s heavy hitter, and Maccain had 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 too limited; every time he used them, part of his blood turned from green to black. Soon, he would run out, and then he’d just be a shovel-handed brute that 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 powers right there; green blood had flowed out, and when his body produced it anew, it was black.

A burst of anger overtook him at the thought of that smug skeleton.

Mother! his thoughts cried out again. Help me, Mother! I don’t want to be an 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 had done nothing to earn back her favor. He’d willingly served a necromancer for weeks. Of course, she wouldn’t help. 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 words against his chest, sending him flying back. Only his hard, bark-like skin saved him, but relief turned to horror as he saw a torrent of green drops fly out and wet the soil.

His eyes widened. “NO!” he yelled.

You idiot. Maccain’s voice echoed in his mind. Focus. Spend all your remaining power of the earth 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, anyway. 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 had 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, and fuck Maccain, 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 power was reduced to a trickle, Jericho tried to pull more, but 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 jumped back and buckled down, 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 kind of 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!” he shouted. “You are back!”

He connected to the earth again. Instantly, every drop of blood in his body turned green, and as long as his feet touched the ground, he had access to unlimited power.

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 had saved him. He knew how to thank her. His path was clear.

“Bogdanov, Lela,” he said, “and you, strong wraith. You are now free. I will not control you like Maccain, but I will offer you a choice. You have seen the evils of necromancy. Join me, and together, we will rid the world of necromancers.”

A green aura appeared 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?” he asked her. “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 towards 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 one knee.

Jericho smiled. He had freed himself, won back Gaia’s favor, and acquired three powerful followers. Moreover, he had a clear path before him. Things were suddenly going well.

“Good,” he said. “The Academy is too strong for us right now. We will head north. 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. However, it hadn’t been 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 in 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, quickly disappearing from Jericho’s vision.

He shivered. That thing’s power was on a scale that seemed inconsistent with the rest of the world. He had no idea what it was, but it had powers of death. Was it a necromancer’s mount? Had the Necromancy Archmage turned against the Order? Had the Headmaster and the Sakalai 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.