The wind howled across the mountaintop as the party stood before the twin mausoleums—white marble gleaming under drifting snow, their doors flanked by towering statues. Between them, a patch of disturbed ice concealed what they had come for: a trapdoor.
When they opened it, a thin, shrill piping echoed across the peaks—a sound not meant for human ears. Without hesitation, they descended into the darkness below.
The air was colder there, damp with the scent of dust and oil. Bo-Jing drew his flaming sword; its light revealed a chamber filled with crates, barrels, and sacks—but also coffins and urns, too many for comfort. The faintest suggestion of movement made them press on, down a corridor lined with skeletons frozen at attention.
The second wave came silently from deeper within the hall. The group stood their ground, Salt unleashing another blast, until the air itself seemed to hiss with heat. The hallway fell still.
The next obstacle was an ice maze—a winding field of transparent walls and hanging stalactites. Bangqiu levitated upward to scout and discovered the ceiling bristled with brittle ice spears. With a grin, he shook the cavern itself. The ice fell like rain, clearing a new path through the maze.
At its end was a sloped tunnel of smooth ice. Salt went first, sliding down into a vast, torchlit cavern. A balcony glowed dimly across the expanse. As the others assembled, the torches went out.
In the dark, Bo-Jing and Bangqiu each rose into the air, their enchanted boots and spells carrying them along the ceiling. When they neared the balcony, the magic faltered. Bangqiu dropped—recovering his levitation inches before the ground. Bo-Jing landed hard but steady, sword ready.
There was someone there. A man hunched over a circle of ash and black candles. The necromancer Mouru Zhai—once Acererak’s apprentice, now his would-be destroyer—was in the middle of a ritual. His voice cut off as he turned toward Bo-Jing.
Bangqiu rose again, his eyes glowing faintly as he hurled his own missiles of pure force. The necromancer staggered under the combined assault. When he fell, the torches reignited themselves for a moment—then died again.
When the echoes faded, Bo-Jing exhaled, and the two of them began the grim work of searching the necromancer’s lair. The laboratory reeked of blood and preservation fluid. On a slab lay Niao—their long-lost companion—her body reanimated and augmented, four arms crudely sewn on. The enchantments had failed when her master died. They gathered her remains gently, detaching the extra limbs and placing her true body into Mouru Zhai’s own bag of holding.
The necromancer’s chambers were a study in poor housekeeping skills and worse personal hygiene. His spellbooks, though foul-smelling, were intact. Salt unearthed notes describing Mouru Zhai’s final obsession: a Power Word spell capable of destroying Acererak—but only if cast from the astral or ethereal plane. The margins were filled with desperate calculations and half-legible invocations.
When they returned to the ship, the sage Lao Ren was waiting. He congratulated them, declaring that by defeating Mouru Zhai, they had opened the path to their true purpose—the destruction of the source of all this evil: Acererak himself.
Salt, who had long resisted this quest, felt her resolve waver. Lao Ren’s reasoning was cruel but convincing: while the curse persisted, they would share Captain Hu’s strange advantage. Any mortal death suffered within the tomb would not be final. For a time, they would be unkillable.
She looked at Bo-Jing, who simply nodded.
Bangqiu’s eyes reflected torchlight.
The Crimson Reprieve would sail again—this time toward Acererak’s island.
