?An ancient corpse, a diary full of secret knowledge, the legendary Death Prism… This hidden cave contained treasures greater than anyone had ever imagined—only Marcus was disappointed, as there were exactly zero taels to be found.


    "Don’t worry, Marcus. I’ll compensate you," Jerry said and laughed.


    "You better!" The treasure hunter snorted. “I am entitled to ninety-nine percent of this treasure!”


    “Good luck getting that Prism,” Horace said. “History is nice and all, but can we focus on the Archmage who’s out to get us?"


    “You’re right,” Jerry agreed. “Those undead will be looking for us at the shores by now. We should surface and run in the opposite direction."


    "What if they’ve left guards above us?"


    "Then, we run faster."


    Axehand grunted a chuckle. Boney shrugged. "Sure thing," he said.


    "And then what?" Laura said. "Marcus and I can’t run for long. Even if we escape the lake, the death knights will catch up to us."


    Horace said, "The airship is not—"


    "Freedom," Jerry interrupted him with a smile. Horace looked over and sighed.


    "Freedom is not far away," he relented. "If we make it there and keep the death knights at bay for long enough, you can escape."


    "That’s—wait. ‘You?’"


    "Yes, you. I will stay."


    Everyone looked at Horace, who kept his head high in pride.


    "That’s stupid," Marcus said. "You’ll just die. We can’t fight that guy anymore."


    "I have a duty to my tribe," Horace said. "I must kill this Archmage to protect them.”


    "It’s hopeless, Horace!" Laura insisted. "You’re just rushing to your death."


    "Perhaps, but I will never betray my people."


    "Your death won’t help them! You can go back. Even if Arakataron sends the Wizard Order after you, at least you can be there and protect them."


    Horace shook his head. "I know my place. I am a guardian, not a caretaker. This is my duty. If Arakataron survives, my tribe will be annihilated, so I will kill him or die trying."


    She tried to speak again, but Horace raised an open palm. "I’m not discussing this, just letting you know. When you are all safe, I will return to fight."


    He was determined—but deep inside, known only to himself, there was another reason for his insistence. Horace knew he was on borrowed time. When this adventure was over, he’d have to return to his tribe. To his eternal prison.


    He would do it without hesitation, but the thought suffocated him harder than the lake of death energy. He hated it—and he’d rather die than go back.


    He shook those thoughts away.  Duty comes first.


    Everyone went silent. From the side, Axehand nodded in agreement with Horace’s plan.


    "Axehand," Boney said, as if reading his thoughts, "don’t get any ideas. We must protect Master."


    Axehand faced Boney, and their two skeletal gazes clashed in mid-air. If Boney had eyes, they would have gone wide with surprise. Undead never abandon their Masters!


    "What’s wrong with you, Axehand!" he asked, but Axehand only grunted. He didn’t need to be understood, nor did he particularly care about the opinion of others. He would do whatever he wanted.


    Axehand and Horace exchanged a glance. They nodded faintly to each other.


    "I still want to leave," Marcus said. "I’m not a fighter. I would love to help, but I won’t participate in a suicide attack."


    "Maybe Axehand and Horace can try to ambush Arakataron again and serve as a distraction while we escape," Laura said. "It’s riskier for us, but they can have a better chance like that."


    Marcus thought about it. "I can take that risk," he finally agreed.


    "Then, how should we time it?" Boney asked. "Let’s hurry; there’s no telling how long the air here can last you."


    ***


    While the rest were planning and discussing, Jerry sat by himself. He held the pearl and stared at it, trying to peer through its secrets.


    What are you, little pearl…  he wondered.  A weapon? An ornament? A pretty little disaster? Or maybe shiny fish bait?


    Of course, he could still hear the others, he just didn’t participate in their conversation. Axehand and Horace’s decision pained his heart, but he understood.


    Axehand was a proud individual. The only time he’d lost a fight was when Jericho first assaulted them, and Jerry had sensed the burning shame which flooded Axehand for the next few months.


    Horace seemed to be similar. He was led not by pride, but by an unwavering devotion on what he considered his duty… Jerry could not share that emotion, nor could he understand it, but everyone had their own paths. If Horace wanted to follow it, Jerry would be sad but accept it.


    Axehand and Horace… These two were different, yet similar in how they placed something else above their lives—or unlives. Pride and duty. Axehand had escaped Jerry’s control long ago. They were peers, and each could make their own decision.


    Jerry could only sigh in sadness. He couldn’t understand…or could he?


    Death wasn’t terrible. It was unavoidable; if one could make it count, why fear getting there earlier? Why devote one’s entire life to delaying death?


    Life was a long series of enjoyable moments. Death was a climax fueled by everything that came before it.


    Something clicked in Jerry’s mind. He’d had those thoughts before, but phrasing them like this felt different, as if he’d untied a knot and could suddenly see clearly. He gazed at the silent pearl before him.  Did you influence me, little pearl?


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    It did not respond, but Jerry understood. It hadn’t influenced him. It had shown him a million visions before, and through them, he’d comprehended some things.


    Jerry smiled—and the pearl was satisfied.


    Suddenly, their connection deepened. Jerry’s soul perception couldn’t penetrate the pearl’s exterior, but a faint link stretched from his soul to its core. That link had been created while he experienced the visions, and it represented the pearl’s approval.


    Now, it became something more.


    Power pumped through the link. It was minuscule, barely noticeable at all, and it fed into Jerry like the power he pushed into his undead.


    When that tiny fraction of magic entered Jerry’s soul, he instantly drew a deep breath. Something had changed. He didn’t know what, but something had. The world felt purer, more welcoming. Jerry looked around until he realized it.


    The death energy was his friend. There was no better way to phrase it.


    Being a necromancer, he’d always been sensitive to death energy. His soul contained some of it, as did his undead or corpses. The air also had death energy, though it was sparse and unusable.


    When Jerry manipulated death energy, it was like manipulating goat skin to create shoes. It was there, and he just shaped it. Being a necromancer felt like having an extra set of hands that could work with death energy.


    However, as he felt around him, Jerry realized that was not the case anymore. Death energy wasn’t an ambient material he worked with. It was alive, and it liked him. It was willing to help him. In most areas of the world, where the density of death energy was close to nothing, this would be useless—but in a lake of liquid death energy, its support mattered.


    He raised a finger, and the specks of death energy in the air formed into a small butterfly. It landed on his finger and waved its dark wings.


    "Hey, guys, look!" he exclaimed, not moving, so he wouldn’t scare it. Everyone turned around, and Marcus released a tired sigh.


    "What’s that, Jerry?" he asked.


    "Remember how I told you the Prism is my friend? Well, so is death energy! Look!" He used another finger to pet the little butterfly. It stayed still for a moment, then dispersed, obviously annoyed. Jerry stared at his finger with disappointment.


    "Are you sure it likes you, Master? Maybe you’d just accidentally touched some pollen."


    "It does, Boney, I can feel it!" He looked around again, exploring the sensation. "I mean, not too much…but it likes me!"


    "Are you finally going insane, Master? I knew this day would come."


    "Hmph. You just wait and see."


    Jerry closed his eyes and delved into his soul. The death energy there was far more willing to be shaped. He moved it, and it obeyed directly, following his command without needing more energy.


    He could even draw energy from the air and refill his personal reserves, albeit at a slow pace—a process which usually happened naturally and much, much slower. However, even this much regeneration was enough to allow him to control a few extra undead.


    He usually matched their needed upkeep with his regeneration. Now that the latter had increased, he was unstoppable!


    Jerry even realized that, maybe, he could use the ambient death energy to augment his magic. If that worked…


    Hehehe.  He couldn’t help but chuckle.


    "Oh no, Master lost it. Should we go crazy and kill everything?" Boney asked with a straight face.


    "Not everything, no," Jerry replied. "But I do have an idea…"


    His soul perception expanded. Even with the Prism’s assistance, it was unable to penetrate the stone surrounding them—the same reason why Arakataron hadn’t realized he was next to the Prism for fifty years. However, that limitation didn’t extend to the patchwork of clothes they’d used to seal up the entrance. The ambient death energy from outside was also seeping through their barrier, just slowly. Jerry forced his perception through, spreading it farther than ever before


    The entire lake was choke-full of death energy. In Jerry’s mind, it was a collection of innumerable tiny dots of magic which all cheered when they saw him, like he was their hero.


    A large number of soul fish were arrayed around the rock, and more were frantically swimming towards them every second. There were hundreds of fish, if not a thousand, and they gazed at him like soldiers awaiting orders. He could feel a burning desire inside them; they weren’t his friends, like the death energy was, but they needed his help to achieve something.


    Hope… What do you want from me, little fish?  he asked, but they did not reply. They had lost their memories and were only acting on instinct; they didn’t know what they wanted, but their desire was so great it had seeped into their souls.


    Jerry was stunned. This was all too magical—and that was coming from a necromancer! It was like a shoemaker suddenly discovering that shoes could talk and make themselves.


    His soul scanned these fish again, and he suddenly realized they were a force to be reckoned. Each was individually small, but if all these little souls teamed up…and if the entire lake’s death energy was willing to help him…


    He even felt a much larger soul hiding deeper in the lake—or maybe that was just his excitement acting up. The moment he detected it, it detected him as well, and it completely erased its presence.


    Jerry shivered. Whatever that thing was, it was powerful, but not aggressive. He chose to ignore it for now. The important part were the schools of fish patrolling the lake, filled with the desire to fight but unable to do so by themselves.


    "Guys," he said, "I don’t want to ruin your noble sacrifice, but I think we have a chance."


    This lake was the perfect environment. Anywhere else, the death energy in the air wasn’t dense enough to form a connection with him, nor were there rows upon rows of soul warriors ready to fight by his side. Here, however, his newfound connection to the Prism would be extremely potent. Enough to temporarily reach a much higher level.


    Jerry smiled. How strong was Arakataron, really?  Time to find out.


    "Did the Prism really empower you so much?" Laura asked, full of doubt.


    Jerry looked at her. "Not extravagantly. With a little practice, I think I can match two-feather wizards. However, in this place alone, I’m almost invincible."


    "You can’t be serious."


    "I am."


    Two-feather wizards were the elite, the cream of the crop. There weren’t more than a few hundred world-wide. And, to claim to be invincible…


    Laura shook her head. "No wonder you dare fight Arakataron."


    Jerry gave a toothy grin. "Prisms are awesome."


    "And Dorman had collected all five," Marcus said, looking at the ground. "Here I thought he was just an explorer… If he didn’t live in the period of the Great Enigma, he’d be known far and wide by now."


    "He kind of is," Laura replied with a smile. "Everybody knows him, right?"


    Marcus paused. "You aren’t wrong. Still, having all five Prisms… Imagine how strong his team must have been—but why did he scatter them?"


    "Who knows." Everyone looked at each other and shrugged.


    Jerry laughed. "Whatever the reason, he clearly intended for someone to gather them. That little poem at the end was a riddle pointing to the next hiding place, right?"


    "Who the hell was Dorman?" Marcus wondered aloud, his brows furrowed.


    "While I appreciate history," Horace spoke up, "can we get going already? Dorman is dead, and so will we if we don’t hurry."


    Everyone looked at each other and nodded. They had already taken everything they could from here. Only Shelia’s corpse remained, and they all agreed to seal the cave back up after they left so the body would be preserved. They owed it to her.


    With steady steps, Axehand walked to the gap they’d made before and tore it open, revealing a waiting darkness full of glowing white fish. He jumped in.