The Academy was a towering cathedral standing on a lonely hill in the western 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 them, 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. One of the gargoyles scratched its chin.


    As darkness fell, the dark, imposing cathedral took on a sinister hue.


    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 Herald 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.”


    Jericho disdained to respond. Bogdanov, sitting on the ground behind him, couldn’t respond if he wanted to. Only Lela, the water spirit which 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,  Jericho said, 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 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 Heralds had arrived: an old man walking alone with his cane, and a young woman of extreme beauty surrounded by death knights. These death knights attracted a lot of aspiring social butterflies, but none were as responsive as Lela.


    Once again, Jericho glared at her with irritation.


    Maccain returned with a thoughtful look on his face. Jericho heaved a sigh of relief. As much as he hated the man, he at least deterred other wizards.


    “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’s wonderful, Master,” she spoke again. “The Headmaster recognized your greatness and summoned you here to give you 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 Herald 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 none of 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 fear and respect, 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?


    ***


    "Look, guys! I found the real Death Prism!"


    Jerry raised the pearl with a proud smile, stopping everyone in their tracks. They gaped.


    "The what?"


    They knew what the Death Prism was. Horace had talked about it when describing the Curse’s origin. In fact, the fake Prism they’d destroyed was only a pale imitation of the real Death Prism.


    Legends said there were five Prisms in the world, each corresponding to one school of magic—necromancy, biomancy, photomancy, pyromancy, hydromancy. These five Prisms were said to be the crystalized essence of the world’s magic, but little else was known about them.


    Some said that a Prism could make regular people into wizards. Others said it could instantly raise a wizard to the level of an Archmage. Others yet claimed that all magic in the world stemmed from the Prisms, and that destroying one would forever cut off that school of magic.


    Whatever the truth was, everyone agreed that the Prisms were divine objects carrying unthinkable power. Of course, most people believed that the Prisms were mere fables, but the pearl in Jerry’s hand seemed to disagree.


    While recounting Granny’s information, Horace had even described how the Wizard Order had gone to extreme lengths to locate the Death Prism, said to be in the northern parts of the continent, even going as far as to create the Curse in hopes of resonating with it. Despite their efforts, they had failed.


    How pissed would Arakataron be to learn that the Prism was right under his nose the entire time?


    "The Death Prism," Jerry repeated, rotating the pearl before their eyes. "It’s this thingy here."


    "The Death Prism is not a thingy, Jerry," Horace said, squinting at the pear. "And, if this really was it, I doubt you could hold it so casually."


    "Why not?"


    "Because the Prism is supposed to be unobtainable. Only those recognized by magic—the Archmages—can claim it."


    "Well, I can too, and I’m pretty sure this is the real thing."


    Horace stared at Jerry, extending a hand. "May I?"


    "Sure."


    Jerry put the pearl in Horace’s hand. "MOTHER—" A hoarse scream instantly left Horace’s mouth as he dropped to the ground and clutched his arm, letting the pearl roll away.


    "Horace!" "Are you okay?"


    Everyone gathered around him. Dark veins popped on Horace’s pale forehead as he furiously gritted his teeth, and his hand was spasming like crazy, almost breaking off its own fingers.


    Jerry watched with worry but didn’t approach. He picked the pearl back up and stared at it in confusion.


    "Holy shit," Horace muttered weakly, finally relaxing. He lay on his back and spread his limbs while panting heavily. His forehead was drenched in sweat.


    "Are you okay? What happened?" Laura asked.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    "I don’t know…" Horace stayed still for a moment, gazing at the ceiling. "My entire body was on fire and my soul was pulled apart to the point of almost breaking."


    "By Hydra! That sounds awful!"


    "...It was okay."


    Seeing that Horace was well enough to act proud, everyone looked back at Jerry—and, specifically, the pearl he held.


    "Jerry," Laura said slowly, "maybe you should put that thing down."


    "Right." Marcus nodded. "It sounds very expensive, so be careful." He then cowered under the gazes of Laura and every single one of Jerry’s undead. "I was joking…" he muttered.


    Jerry didn’t mind; he even laughed a bit. "It’s fine. I think it likes me."


    "It’s a pearl, Jerry. It can’t like you."


    "Do you see me convulsing on the ground?"


    Everyone glanced at Horace, who snorted. "I’m not convulsing," he said.


    "Okay…" Laura still eyed the pearl warily but accepted Jerry’s words. "Can you explain, Jerry? What happened?"


    "Well, I saw this pearl on the ground and thought it was very pretty, so I picked it up. The irresistible pull at my soul helped. Then, I saw a bunch of visions and became friends with the pearl."


    "You became friends with—" Marcus shook his head. "Can you explain properly, please? How do you know this is the Death Prism?"


    "I saw a million lives wink out one-by-one and a construct of death larger than the sky. It was pretty clear at that point."


    "You saw what?"


    "Yeah, it was a bit roug." Jerry shrugged. “I think it’s a pretty cool pearl, you know? It’s friendly; just a bit weird, but then again, so am I! Maybe that’s why it likes me. I like it back."


    Laura weighed it with her gaze. No matter how she looked, it seemed like a normal, oddly-colored pearl. She shrugged. "It’s pretty," she admitted.


    "Bonding with treasure is a bad idea; I can tell you that by experience," Marcus said


    "That thing is dangerous," Horace spat out as he stood—slowly and carefully. He was still shaking a bit, but his eyes were sharp as they rested on the pearl. "It attacked me, and I could do nothing. You should stay away from it."


    Jerry shook his head. "We’re friends now. It won’t harm me."


    "It’s a pearl."


    "It’s the Death Prism."


    Horace grunted but didn’t speak further. Axehand grunted, too, not letting Horace hog his signature move. Through Jerry, he could sense that the pearl was a special, powerful, and aloof existence. He viewed it as a peer. He nodded at it.


    "So, you’re bonded with it, Master," Boney said, and his excitement mounted. "Is it really as the legends say? Did it make you stronger!?"


    "Hmm." Jerry frowned. "I don’t think so."


    "Maybe it’s broken."


    "I know the Death Prism is impressive and all, but can we talk about the corpse behind Jerry?" Horace said, and everyone suddenly remembered about it.


    "Oh, right! It has wings!" Boney said.


    "It better have some treasure too…" Marcus muttered to himself. He wouldn’t touch that pearl with a nine-foot pole, but he still owned a 99% share of the treasure!


    I expected mountains of gold, Manna dammit!


    If Dorman’s treasure was only a notebook, a corpse, and a pearl he couldn’t even touch, Marcus would be seriously pissed.


    Everyone crowded around the corpse and gave it a closer look. It was a woman with a pure face, golden locks for hair, and tanned skin. She wore a set of pristine white robes, and two wings spread out from her back, poking through deliberate holes in the fabric.


    She sat cross-legged against the wall. With growing interest, Jerry noticed that her face was calm. How many people could die with such composure, especially when entombed alone?


    Jerry stared at the woman, and deep respect oozed from within his soul. He even felt a connection to her, as if the two of them were similar—but how could that be? The feeling resembled what he’d felt with Granny.


    Was she also a necromancer?


    "Wow," Laura said breathlessly. "She seems almost magical…"


    "Maybe it’s the wings," Boney said. "I wonder, are her eyes magic as well?"


    He gently raised one of her eyebrows and was met with an off-white color. Her iris was barely a different color than the sclera, producing a gaze that reached directly into the soul.


    Despite that, she didn’t seem evil; just wise.


    "I wonder who she was…" Marcus wondered aloud.


    "Shelia Vanderful," Jerry replied. Everyone turned to stare at him. "What? It’s in her diary," he said, raising the little brown notebook.


    Everyone looked at each other. In their excitement, they’d almost forgotten about this notebook. "What else does it say?" They quickly crowded around Jerry, who began reading. Only half the pages were filled—clearly, this woman’s life had ended sooner than intended.


    The information contained within was bountiful.


    According to the notebook, Shelia Vanderful was a necromancer from the Cloud Sea—nobody present knew where that was. She’d grown up there and was supposed to live a peaceful life when an outsider showed up. He was a hero; strong, handsome, kind. He easily took care of the giants harassing Shelia’s tribe but accepted no reward. At the banquet held in his honor, his roaring laughter made clouds shake and hearts flutter. Shelia quickly fell in love with this man but didn’t dare reveal her feelings. She didn’t feel worthy.


    Unfortunately, that man was only passing by the Cloud Sea. Only a few weeks after his arrival, he departed again, but his figure was forever engraved in Shelia’s heart. She followed him. The outside world was forbidden to all tribespeople, but Shelia broke the rules, disowned herself from the tribe, and followed this mysterious, charming man into adventure. According to the diary, written by Shelia herself, the years that followed were the happiest period of her life.


    The man’s name was Dorman.


    When Jerry reached here, a series of exclamations rang out. Dorman! The legendary explorer! The mysterious person whose treasure had springboarded an entire profession! The one who’d lived and died during the Great Enigma!


    Almost nothing was known about Dorman, and they held a diary written by one of his closest companions!


    Of course, Marcus and Jerry already knew this place was connected to Dorman, but they didn’t expect this woman to be connected to him as well. After all, she seemed like she’d died yesterday!


    They quickly turned back to the diary, and everyone’s eyes burned as they hungered for more. The diary didn’t disappoint; it was a treasure trove of information.


    Shelia followed Dorman for many years. They adventured throughout the world, and in their travels, a few more people chose to follow the shining beacon that was Dorman. They were six, at the end, each hailing from a completely different place. The writing didn’t offer details about these companions or their places of origin, but it seemed to indicate the existence of six different lands across the world.


    Everyone looked up and stared at each other.


    "But there’s only three," Marcus said hesitantly. "The King Continent, the Sea of Sands, and the Jewel Archipelago. Right?"


    Laura shrugged. "Maybe she meant nations.”


    "Yeah, I guess."


    In the end, this part wasn’t too important. They hungrily kept reading.


    Dorman’s group traveled throughout the world, having crazy adventures. Shelia hadn’t recorded the details, but the gist of things was clear. They were strong, and tyrants existed everywhere; Dorman would liberate the people wherever they passed.


    Their life was dangerous and exciting. It was full in every way. Shelia never revealed her feelings towards Dorman, who also never realized them, though everyone else knew. Love could not be hidden.


    At this point, the contents of the diary took a sharp turn. Shelia’s entries became rarer.


    The carefree days of Dorman’s group were coming to an end. During their adventures, they had collected the five Prisms and attained great power, which also brought great responsibility. They could no longer run free and wild across the land. Everyone looked up to them, and they were treated as kings. Shelia was clearly worried.


    The Primordials, the greatest tyrants of all, took notice.


    Jerry turned the page and found a gap. Many pages had been ripped off, leaving a single written one before the end. In this final page, Shelia claimed that she and the rest of her companions were tasked with scattering the five Prisms in specific locations around the world, one in each land, except for one.


    And then, the diary simply ended, as had Shelia’s life. Jerry quickly flipped through the remaining empty pages but found nothing. However, just as his disappointment mounted, he reached the inner back cover, on which a riddle was carved:


    Where the sun shines brightest, on the tallest peak,


    ? in the helmet of the king is the Prism you seek.


    "What a shitty cliffhanger!" Marcus grumbled. "What happened in the missing pages? What happened to Dorman? What about the Primordials? Why did Shelia die in this goddamn cave? What even are the Prisms? Where is Dorman’s real treasure? Argh!"


    Laura chuckled. She, too, was intrigued but never cared much about history. "Think about it, Marcus; what treasure could be greater than a Prism?"


    "Two Prisms," Boney replied quickly.


    "I can’t eat a Prism, can I?" The treasure hunter crossed his arms. "Magic my ass… I just want money!"