An odd procession greeted the woods. Ahead walked Derek, his bulky yet dexterous form leading the way for everyone else. 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.

And 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 quiet. At the present point, 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 forth in an attempt to remain standing without his head.

Training, they called it. Derek could barely hold back 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?” whispered Jerry. “We’re doing our best.”

Actually, they weren’t in any danger of being noticed. Birb was flying high above, constantly scouting the forest around them. 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 let out a cocky grunt.

Boney slowly shook his head. “After all this time?” he asked. “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.

Suddenly, 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 up, a small crimson sparkle flickering within their eyes. Their instincts reared up; they would protect Jerry no matter what. They immediately fanned out around him.

“Stay here,” ordered the hunter 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 to go old-school.

So they waited. A few minutes went by, then some more. The smell of blood had become more noticeable by now, and even Jerry’s hands flickered with a faint black sheen, ready to 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 of sorts… 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.”

“I just did my job.” The hunter shrugged. He had not 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, spears, and a crossbow. These weapons had been taken by the dead bandits or donated by Derek, but some of them 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,” said Jerry. “Let’s go.”

“Follow me.”

Now in a tight formation, the procession slowly crept through the woods. Of course, despite the undeads’ perfect discipline and Derek’s instructions, making some sounds was unavoidable. If not for the shoes everyone wore, they would have been as quiet as a stumbling ox.

“We’re here.”

The bushes parted to reveal a slightly cleaner 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, with only a single tent standing 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 was clearly experienced, but despite their precautions, they had clearly been discovered.

Dead bodies littered the camp. Some were gutted, some pierced by arrows, some beheaded; all of them very dead, and very recent. The scent of blood was still thick in the area.

“They died within the last day,” said Derek, narrowing his eyes. “It was an ambush. Look; most don’t even have armor on. That poor fellow even died inside his tent.”

Boney stepped beside Jerry. “Master,” he said softly, “aren’t these…”

“Yes.” Jerry took the massacre in calmly. “These are the Billies.”

“You knew them?” Derek looked over. “Who were they?”

“Soldiers of Milaris,” described Jerry. “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 commander. Only he is 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 been unnoticeable so far. Before anyone could realize what was happening, an 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 that they spilled out. Derek’s heartbeat skyrocketed.

“Hello.” Jerry smiled. “Captain Ramon, yes?”

“Reymond,” the man barked, pressing his blade into Jerry’s neck. “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 did have a blade to his neck, 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, people who approached necromancers either killed them or didn’t live to tell the tale.

However, despite the blade on his throat, Jerry chose not to act. He felt positively disposed towards this loyal yet reasonable commander, 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 are here,” the hunter replied slowly, “to destroy the bandits.”

“Crafty, but 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 for a moment. None backed down. “And him?” he asked, nodding towards 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 soldier tightened his grip.

“Jerry is a good man, soldier,” Derek spoke quickly. “I swear that on my life itself. 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’s neck. “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,” said Derek.

“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,” he said. “This was their duty. If they were on the Damn Wall, they’d die all the same.”

“Perhaps.” Reymond chuckled to himself. “But it remains that they were under my command. Their death is my failure. What face do I have to still live? If you can kill me, hunter—which you cannot—perhaps you would rid this world of one more villain.”

“Why were you here, Reymond?” asked Derek.

He was trying to calm things down, and Reymond understood that but didn’t care.

“To stop the bandits,” he spat out. “These devilish beings burned an entire village alive, a village under my jurisdiction… It was my failure. 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. This wasn’t trying to anger the officer; it was an honest question.

Reymond shook his head. “We wouldn’t storm their base,” he said. “We would camp half a day away, spying on them and occasionally killing a few. We would be the hunters… but I underestimated them far too much. We pulled off a single ambush, but in the end, they were the hunters, and we were only prey. They fell on us in the night; half of my men died numb. The rest fought, but they weren’t nearly skilled enough; only one bandit fell to their hands before they all died.”

He pressed his eyes shut. “I should have died with them… But in the heat of battle, my instinct told me to flee, and so I did, dodging arrows until they stopped firing. It wasn’t until I was puking from exhaustion that I realized what I had done. I let my men die and ran away. I am a disgrace to the army and myself.”

“You did what everyone would,” said Derek. “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 promise your undead won’t harm me?” A 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.

“...What?” he mumbled. Let alone defending, he had barely seen the attack coming at all! Axehand turned to look at Jerry, his red eye-flames roaring.

“I meant it, guys.” Jerry slowly stood up, patting himself down. “He’s a good guy, I can feel it.”

“If I may, master,” Boney’s voice was slow, “you can’t just ‘feel’ good guys.”

“Sure I can. Now let him go, Axehand.”

Reluctantly, the skeletal behemoth lowered his hand and stepped back, still glaring at a very terrified soldier. Finally facing the man, Jerry could take a good look at him too.

Graying, disheveled hair could be seen in lack of a helmet. A 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 helpfully, “the world’s best lumberjack.”

“Best… what?”

“Lumberjack,” Jerry helped. “He might look a bit scary, but he’s actually a pretty gentle soul.”

“I…” Reymond was lost for words. Derek looked at Jerry.

“Are you okay, my friend?” he asked.

“Very.” Jerry smiled. “Now come, Captain. Chat with us for a bit. If you want to stop the bandits, and we want the same, perhaps 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,” said Jerry, beaming at the man. “Although…” he continued, eyes falling on the well-built, dead Billies, “I have an idea I’m pretty sure you won’t like.”

Then, the Billies stood up, dusted themselves off, and waved at Reymond.