Jerry’s and Maccain’s souls clashed midair.

  Like two armies fighting, or two bodies of water trying to drown each other, they split into strands and streams, coiling and twisting and ensnaring each other. It was the first time Jerry engaged in soul battle—but the knowledge came easy, and his soul obeyed his will as it split and dashed, executing the formations he invented on the fly.

  It felt glorious.

  But Maccain was there, too, and the moment their souls collided, Jerry could instantly tell he was outclassed. Where his soul was a stream, Maccain’s was an entire raging river—and though Jerry did his best, he quickly drowned in the other necromancer’s sheer volume of power.

  Even if he could somehow resist this, Maccain’s soul was superior in every way. Where Jerry was a farmer who suddenly found himself leading an army, Maccain was an experienced general, and every attempt to fight back was squashed with ease.

  Jerry felt like a toddler fighting an adult.

  There’s so much room to grow…

  Two-feather wizards really were different; a mountain peak rising into the clouds. He couldn’t hold a candle.

  Jerry was flooded with awe. For a moment, the realization of how much there was to learn excited him beyond belief, to the extent that he forgot about Maccain being an opponent and admired his mastery.

  In the next moment, Jerry’s soul force was overwhelmed and forcibly dispersed, leaving him dry heaving atop the airship. Everything was fuzzy and painful; it was like drowning again, but ten times worse.

  How can you be this weak? A voice rang directly inside his soul, cutting through the haze. How can your little soul control a death knight, let alone one so strong? What secrets do you hide?

  Through bleary eyes, Jerry focused on Maccain, making out a face twisted in confusion.

  I must know! the voice continued, split between excitement, fear, and fanatical desire. You must be mine! I will disband your undead and enslave you, prying away every tiny detail of your life until I find out the truth.

  A pitch-black hand invaded Jerry’s soul, bypassing any and all defenses as it reached for the links tying him to his undead. No… Jerry thought weakly. No, no, no!

  His soul force flared and was instantly squashed again. He was completely helpless. He hated that. The hand grabbed the links and squeezed.

  NO!

  “NO!”

  The hand recoiled as if grabbing burning ropes, and Jerry was surprised because the voice that screamed wasn’t his. Forcing himself to look, he found Maccain with his arms raised, struggling to shield himself from a spinning maelstrom of bony violence.

  Foxy!

  Jerry had never been more relieved, except perhaps that time when he unleashed fifteen years of pent-up magic in one go.

  Glass shards still rained from the second-floor window Foxy had charged through to reach Maccain, and the necromancer was screaming as he struggled to keep the skeletal fox away from his vitals. The foreign influence inside Jerry retreated.

  “BACK OFF!” Maccain screamed, using his soul force as a physical power to slam Foxy away with enough strength to send her careening onto the airship. Cracking sounds accompanied the fall, and the fox went still.

  “Foxy!” Jerry shouted again, rushing to her body, and he heaved a large sigh of relief when he found her still alive, if barely. He raised his gaze at the enemy necromancer. “You will pay, Maccain!”

  The Herald was still standing, glaring at Jerry even as he lost black blood from various places. A new, vertical scar could be seen on his forehead, intersecting with the horizontal one and forming a cross.

  “How dare you touch me, slave?” he raved. “Do you know who I am? I am Herald Maccain Darkson of the Wizard Order. HOW DARE YOU TOUCH ME! Destroy them!”

  Maccain’s two remaining undead roared. Jericho dived into the fray himself, grabbing Axehand’s skull, raising him in the air, and smashing him into the ground. The cyclops swung his greatclub him right after, planting the double skeleton deeper into the soil even as the earth shook around them.

  Jerry felt Axehand’s soul shudder. “No!” he screamed.

  The cyclops raised his greatclub to strike again. Axehand managed to get up and cross his arms in front of his face, trying to block, but it was like an ant facing a human. The result was clear.

  “NO!” Jerry shouted again, but he could only watch in horror.

  A bright ball of fire crossed the air, landing on the cyclops’s head and enveloping it in flames. He missed, and Axehand, that brave lumberjack, remained standing.

  A group of guards appeared from a hole in the manor’s walls, and everyone turned to look. They only carried melee weapons or, at most, spears—arrows were generally useless against the undead, so the soldiers of Edge weren’t trained with them.

  Jerry recognized their leader; she was the commander he’d seen on the Wall, the nature spirit who’d matched the death knight. They also had a pyromancer who, fortunately, had attacked on sight before realizing the undead were fighting each other, and accidentally saved Axehand.

  “Stop!” Maccain shouted. “I represent the Wizard Order!”

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  They did not care. Growling, the cyclops rushed at the guards, but the female spirit from the Wall reached him first, tiptoeing around his massive body and stabbing his back. The cyclops growled, and as he turned to hit her, she dodged again. Flames found his head, drawing more screams of pain, and the guards fanned around the cyclops with weapons at the ready.

  “Fine!” Maccain lost his composure. “Die first!”

  Jerry felt something, then. A large part of Maccain’s soul force left his body, traveling in a straight line to reach the cyclops.

  Is that the link between them? he wondered. What is he doing?

  At the next moment, the cyclops’s power skyrocketed. His skin turned red and steaming. His movements grew faster, his club got stronger. Through the flames, the cyclops grinned—and then, with impossible speed, he rammed his greatclub into a guard and blew him to bits. Meanwhile, with Gorgon drawing everyone's gazes, Maccain seemed to disappear. Wizards were fragile, and despite his agitation, Maccain was a principled individual—now that more enemies had arrived from behind him, he ought to hide and reposition himself.

  “What?! How?” Jerry exclaimed as he saw Gorgon obliterating a soldier, because he had no idea what just happened.

  “I’m here!” a voice came from behind, and Jerry turned to find Marcus, who dropped his heavy backpack on the deck. The treasure hunter was already in motion—ignoring the two hydromancers fighting on the deck—rushing to where the balloon’s supports were. “We must leave right away. Where the hell is the fuel?”

  “Right here!”

  Boney and a Billy burst out of the stairs, carrying three barrels in total, each with a different symbol on it. “Which one is the fuel?”

  “The fire one, you numbskull! Quick, quick, bring it over!”

  They dropped the other two barrels and ran at the treasure hunter, who was already messing with a weird pipe system. “Quick, quick!” he shouted again, struggling to fit the barrel into a particular position before pointing at Laura’s side. “And what the hell is that?!”

  “Laura!” Boney replied. “She’s with us now.”

  “Who the fuck is Laura?”

  “She’s a dancer.”

  “She’s a hydromancer!”

  “And Master’s a shoemaker. Look, I have no clue either!” Boney relented. “She just showed up and joined us, but she saved Master!”

  “You accepted random people into our expedition?” A click came as Marcus managed to fit the barrel into the proper position. He grabbed a lever and lowered a sharp iron pipe into the barrel’s waxed opening as he continued, “Are you out of your goddamn mind? I’m the leader here! You need to consult me!”

  “First of all, no, you’re not. And second, the more the merrier!” Boney replied, rushing downstairs to bring another flame-marked barrel. “Master said so!”

  “The more the—Screw you! And where the hell are you going? I need help!”

  “I’m here!” Jerry cried out, arriving by Marcus’s side.

  “Good, hold the pipe steady.”

  “Which one’s the pipe?”

  “The sharp one!”

  “They’re all sharp!”

  “Manna damn it, get out of the way! I’ll do it myself!”

  Jerry stepped back as Marcus operated two pieces of machinery at once, the threat to his life giving him excellent dexterity.

  Then came a click, a tearing sound, and a woosh, and the sound of moving air was suddenly heard from the pipe in front of Jerry—the sharpest one.

  “It’s working!” he exclaimed, looking up.

  “Well, don’t bloody tell them!”

  The airship shook. “Stop them!” came a series of shouts, and then the stomping of boots approached their airship.

  “Stop them!” Jerry repeated, sending a horde of undead off the airship and against the incoming guards. Boboar, Headless, and the other three Billies were finally able to help!

  A massive oink followed a disembodied roar as the undead unleashed themselves into battle, meeting the contingent of guards head-on. Boboar plowed through their group as Headless wielded his spear, and the three Billies grabbed a sword each as they jumped into the fray.

  For a few moments, the pandemonium reached a peak. Gorgon fought some guards, zombies fought some other guards, Axehand fought Jericho, the airship was taking off, screams came from everywhere, Maccain was hiding and preparing to strike, and all manor staff quickly evacuated to the town, bringing along the count’s children as well.

  Facing the zombies’ assault, all eight guards roared together, “For the king!” They wielded their spears in a formation which Boboar promptly broke apart, sending one of them flying before rushing past the battlefield himself—boars needed time to turn.

  The remaining guards fell on the four zombies, and steel met steel as the clash of blades finally resounded in the courtyard. The zombies were way less skilled than the guards, but they were undead, and they could shrug off deadly wounds as if they were nothing.

  This sight would have been beyond intimidating for most people, but these guards were hardened veterans of the Wall, and they had ample experience fighting the undead. Strike after strike landed on the Billies’ heads, chopping off bits and pieces even as the guards sustained wounds themselves.

  Boboar returned, but they jumped out of his way, and the double-boar once again struggled to turn. Then, with a well-timed leap and an aerial somersault, one of the Billies found himself standing atop Boboar, and he grinned in glee.

  The guards did a double-take—and in that time, the rider Billy plowed through their ranks, frenziedly striking left and right with his sword. When a guard parried the attack, the Billy quickly lost his balance and fell off but quickly stood back up. One guard did not—he had been cleanly beheaded, more due to luck than skill on the Billy’s part.

  The Billies roared triumph for their brother’s triumph, and Headless twirled his spear above his shoulders, drawing inspiration from that Billy to fight harder. Unfortunately, he could not mount Boboar mid-battle, so he could only keep going as he was and hope for the best. The zombies and Boboar were pushed back and cornered against the shaking airship, but they didn’t mind.

  For their master, they would do anything.

  Suddenly, a tearing sound filled the battlefield. The airship shook one final time before rising, breaking the ground where it had been indented after years of immobility. Pieces of its hull fell off, but it was an airship, and it didn’t really need a hull in the first place. Water even flowed out of the holes; the remains of the undead water spirit.

  “We’re flying!” Jerry’s voice came from above. “Climb up, everyone! Hurry!”

  The three thick ropes tying the airship down were pulled taut in the next moment, and the airship shook as it went still. “The ropes, the ropes!” came Marcus’s voice. “Cut the ropes!”