The pentality of magic is present in everything.

Five schools of magic. Five types of nature spirits. Five Archmages. Five Primordials.

Why is our entire world built around photomancy, biomancy, pyromancy, hydromancy, and necromancy? These five obviously form some sort of complete system, but how? Why not aeromancy or metalomancy? No school of magic can control those elements, so where are they!?

Perhaps, every type of magic originates from somewhere. Is it the Primordials, or something deeper? Did all other types of magic go extinct in ancient history, or are they going to appear in the future?

And what the hell happened during the Great Enigma?

What a mysterious world we live in. I love it.

- From the personal notes of Erland, the founder of the Moonlight Kingdom’s Wizard Tower

The Akshik tribe was quick on its feet.

Half an hour later, the tribespeople were all gathered under the moonlight, hoisting bags and sacks of valuables. Of course, their valuables weren’t gold or silver—they were instruments and paintings, written stories and statuettes. The masterpieces of masters would trek through the Dead Lands on the backs of refugees.

While getting ready, they also had time to digest the recent events.

The Akshik tribe had lived peacefully in its swamp for six decades before the Wizard Order intruded on an otherwise joy-filled evening. In the span of a few minutes, they had almost died, then killed a tax collector, then utterly antagonized one of the strongest people in existence; now, they would run for their lives, hoping that they weren’t worth the hassle—or that Jerry, Horace, and the rest of them would prevail over an Archmage.

“What do you think, Horace?” Jerry stepped up to the hunter, watching as the tribespeople encouraged and reassured each other that everything would be fine.

“My heart is heavy, Jerry…” he replied. “This is the time to protect my people, but I leave them behind.”

“That is the way to protect them, Horace. The Order won’t let you escape, even if you run… Unless we pull the problem from its root, all of us are doomed.”

“Mhm.” Horace nodded, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere. “Can I confess something, Jerry?”

“Sure.”

“I am excited.”

Jerry blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” Horace gazed at his pale, muscular hands, slowly clenching them into fists. His voice rumbled deeply as he said, “I have yearned for the outside world for decades. I want to learn what I am, to see what the world has to offer besides wet soil and broken trees, to meet people who can match my powers and rediscover my limits. Duty has always kept me tied here, but now, it’s throwing me at what I desire… My tribe is on the verge of extinction, and yet, my entire body shivers with excitement. Tell me, Jerry, am I detestable?”

Jerry stayed silent for a moment. “I just think you’re lucky.”

Horace glanced up, then chuckled. “Yes, I think so too. In any case, I plan to enjoy this while it lasts.”

“Lucky and wise.”

“A long life tends to do that.”

“Have you ever been to the outside world?” asked Jerry.

Horace nodded. “I have…but I was very young, then, and it has been a long time.”

“I see.”

The tribespeople were gathered around Granny’s hut now, placing a covered cart right before it. The cart’s back was hidden behind cloth curtains, as was its top, and a bed had been placed inside it, where Granny would rest. She couldn’t walk by herself.

“Come on, Horace!” shouted a man, and the hunter walked over to help. Entering the hut, he exited a moment later with a blanketed form in his hands, quickly depositing her in the cart and closing the flap behind him.

“There you go, Granny,” he said tenderly. “I will return soon.”

“We’ll keep her safe, Horace,” a death spirit reassured him.

“I hope you can all stay safe, my friend.” He let out a sigh. “But what’s done is done. Are you ready to go, then?”

Each death spirit carried a single bag or sack with their most beloved belongings. Almost everything had been left behind, with some things even carelessly strewn around the campfire, including the photomancer’s and the death knight’s bodies—the latter couldn’t be reanimated, and the former would lose its magical abilities.

The only other things they would take along were Granny’s cart—it was light, so everyone could easily take turns pulling—and the photomancer’s flying boat, which they could use to scout ahead when necessary. Jerry and the group could have used that boat as well, but giving it to the tribespeople was the least they could do. Jerry even considered sending a few undead to help them, but eventually chose not to.

All the death spirits—a few dozens, no more—looked around, seeing the reluctance in each other’s gazes. “We are not ready…but we must go,” said a woman, sighing, and the reluctance was replaced by conviction.

“From today onward, this is no longer the home of the Akshik tribe,” said Horace with a heavy voice, glancing around at their home of five decades. “But a tribe is its people. In the end, this place is only soil, rock, and wood. As long as we are alive, we can rebuild. We’ve lost nothing.”

“Our lives are everything.” The death spirits agreed as one, sparing a long, final look at their former homes.

“Goodbye, Horace,” they said. “We’re sorry you have to carry this weight for us…”

“My power was born to protect you.” He waved an arm. “Rest assured, everyone. I will return a winner…or not at all.”

“Don’t say that!” A woman stepped forth. “If you cannot win, just run away. Save yourself first.”

“Thank you, but I know my place. Go, now; every moment wasted increases the danger to your lives.”

The death spirits looked at each other again. One-by-one, they lightly bowed their heads at Horace, then turned around and took off. Two were pulling at Granny’s cart, which wasn’t too heavy.

The Akshik tribe had been uprooted. Whether they would find a new home or perish to their pursuers, that was now up to the whims of fate. They could only pray.

Horace didn’t move. He watched them go until they’d crossed the treeline and disappeared, then for some time more. Jerry and the others waited patiently.

Finally, a few moments later, the death spirit turned around. His pale skin reflected the moonlight, and his pitch-black eyes seemed clear and resolute. “Thank you for waiting,” he said. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

“Let’s.”

Jerry, Horace, Marcus, Laura, and all of the undead departed together, a second procession heading in the opposite direction from the tribespeople. And from then on, the Akshik tribe’s home in the swamp stood alone, waiting for nature to reclaim it inevitably.

***

The airship once again sailed through the sky, cutting through air and clouds alike.

“This is incredible!” Horace repeated for the thousandth time, leaning out of the railing. “I can see everything! Look! My entire swamp is one eyeful!”

“Airships are awesome,” Jerry agreed. “I’m so glad we found one to borrow.”

“What kind of lunatic would lend an airship?”

“Well, we didn’t really ask…but we plan to return it!”

“I see.” Horace nodded. “That kind of borrowing.”

“The owner wouldn’t disagree,” Boney cut in. “He’s too dead to ride an airship anyway.”

“But you aren’t?”

“Actually, this airship belongs to the King of Escarbot,” Laura explained. “The Count just had it in his garden.”

Everyone nodded.

“Say, Horace”—Jerry grinned—“do you think you could hit a zombie from this height?”

“No. I can’t predict the wind.”

“Oh.”

“Look, Master,” said Boney, pointing forward, “another cloud!”

“Yahoo!”

“Hold her steady, men!” shouted Marcus, and the ship dived into the grey haze.

They were trying to avoid any untoward eyes, so the airship had risen all the way to the clouds, moving from one to the next like a bunny jumping between bushes. The Dead Lands had a lot of clouds, thankfully, so they had good chances of avoiding the Order’s patrols.

On the downside, the Dead Lands were generally a cold area due to being so high north, and the air up here was absolutely frigid. The clouds’ inner moisture didn’t help.

Pulling her blankets tight, Laura wordlessly left for the deck below. Marcus shivered on the wheel. Everyone else was perfectly fine.

“If it’s this cold, it might as well snow,” Jerry complained, turning to his undead. “Remember those snowmen we’d built, guys? Now we have the Billies, too. Maybe we can finally beat Axehand!”

The double-skeleton grunted, grinding his two axes together.

“Maybe we could get Laura to make some water, Master,” Boney suggested, “and then wait for it to turn into snow.”

“It doesn’t work that way!” she shouted from below deck. “And I’m cold!”

“So what? You won’t be colder if we have some fun.”

“Be polite, Boney.” Jerry laughed. “Let’s leave it up to fate.”

“Very well, Master.”

“Headless!” shouted Marcus. “We’re about to exit the cloud. Is it clear?”

Headless saluted where his forehead would be. His head was currently tied at the end of a long rope, and as Marcus gave the order, he slowly lowered the rope over the railings until the head disappeared into the cloud’s heavy mist. He kept lowering it for some time. Eventually, a head hung below the cloud, and Headless could take in the view. A moment later, he gave a thumbs-up.

“All clear, boys,” said Marcus. “Open the sails. Forward!”

Birb could have done the same thing in a much simpler fashion, but Jerry insisted this way made his undead feel better.

The Billies shouted from above the masts as they let the sails unfold, and the ship accelerated until it broke out of the cloud and into the overcast skies of the Dead Lands. Everyone took a deep breath.

They had been traveling for two days already. Undead still wandered aimlessly in the barren plains and hills below, and they only increased in number as the group approached the center of the Dead Lands, where the Mists of Death were located.

In fact, they were almost there.

“Look, everyone!” said Jerry, pointing a finger in the distance. “I think I can see it!”

Everyone gathered on the ship’s prow, squinting as they peered at the horizon.

“It’s true!” said Horace, whose eyes were sharper than an eagle’s. “That’s the Mists of Death!”

“We made it!” Boney clapped. “Take that, flying whales and stuck-up wizards!”

As they kept sailing, the dark shape on the horizon slowly expanded. From up here, they had a pretty good view.

The Mists of Death resembled a hemisphere. A dark curtain rose from the ground to tremendous height, almost reaching the clouds, and its sides curved inwards the higher one went. The Mists were also enormous in size, enveloping an expanse so vast that, when looking at them from the ground, they resembled a straight line despite being a sphere.

However, the closer they got, the more Jerry realized he’d still underestimated its size. They kept going and going, and the Mists grew larger in their sight until they covered the entire horizon, but they still weren’t there.

“How big is that thing!?” asked Jerry as the ship began its descent—they could have entered the Mists from above, of course, but that felt incredibly unorthodox.

“Dozens of miles in diameter,” replied Laura. “And once you’re inside, the limited visibility makes it seem completely endless.”

“It’s like an extra set of Dead Lands inside the Dead Lands,” Marcus laughed over the howling wind. “An area teeming with danger, where the entire Dead Lands’ death energy gathers. The fauna inside isn’t just undead, it’s mutated!”

“Mutated?”

“Yes, but don’t worry. The air is okay; it’s the ground that you want to avoid.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’ll see.” Marcus gave an enigmatic smile.

The Mists of Death loomed over desolate, barren earth, cracked and filled with rocks. The airship flew true, directly towards the impenetrable darkness, the ship’s size completely insignificant before this natural behemoth.

Their horizon was filled with slithering, invasive darkness. Everyone gulped. They clenched their weapons. Axehand grunted. Boney clackled nervously. Jerry’s eyes widened in awe.

The airship slipped into the Mists and disappeared.