Belric crouched in a corner of the street, coughing as he laid out everything he owned before him: a thick, black-bound book with a snarling demon face etched into the cover, and a core—though what kind of core, he had no idea. An apple core? A gemstone? A seed? He couldn't tell. In the final moments of that battle, he'd tried to snatch back the Soulstone that held his father's soul. Instead, he'd grabbed this thing. Whether the book or the core, both had originally belonged to the demon Bird.
Aside from those, Belric had a single gold coin, a few silvers and coppers, and a small black pushcart—which, strictly speaking, wasn't his either.
That was it. That was all he had.
He packed up his belongings and looked up. Through the greasy gray smog hanging over the city, Belric could see the streets and buildings on the far side of town. Or rather—he saw another city, inverted, hanging above his head.
Gray streets. Crooked buildings. Endless noise and bickering. Belric didn't like this place. But he had to admit—it was the strangest city he'd ever seen.
This was Mark City. The City of Ten Thousand Doors.
Or so they said. And "they said" was the operative phrase—because everything about this place sounded absurd. Even for someone like Belric, who'd crossed worlds and seen the impossible, the rumors about Mark City stretched belief.
He'd said it many times:
"You're lying. That's not possible."
And every time, the locals would laugh maliciously:
"Another Prime bumpkin." "Poor fool." "'Impossible'? You're in the land of the impossible, kid. Better get used to it."
To understand Mark City, you had to start with Final Mountain—a peak that rose infinitely from the center of the Outer Planes. It looked like an inverted icicle, so tall that not even the gods knew its true height. And Mark City? It floated above the summit.
That was just one part of the legend.
The rest, Belric had seen with his own eyes. If you stood far enough away, and had sharp enough vision, you'd see that Mark City looked like a giant donut—or a rubber tire—suspended horizontally above the mountain's tip. The summit pointed directly at the center of the ring, like an arrow frozen mid-flight, just before hitting the bullseye.
The city itself was built along the inner rim of that ring. Which meant, no matter where you stood in Mark City, if the fog and rain didn't block your view, you could look up and see buildings hanging overhead—dense, endless, upside-down.
It took Belric a long time to get used to that. And whenever he told his coworkers about the wide, open blue skies of his home world, they'd gasp in exaggerated horror:
"A sky that big? And blue? Doesn't it feel… empty?" "An open sky? I can't even imagine." "Terrifying. Absolutely terrifying." "You lived under that for years? Belric, you're braver than I thought."
Yes, in Mark City, two people standing on opposite sides of the ring could look up and see each other. Belric had even seen mages fly "upward" to take shortcuts—landing, or crashing, on the opposite side.
It sounded ridiculous. Impossible. But now, Belric saw it every day. He weaved through crowds, looked up, and saw buildings above him. The endless questions and disbelief he'd had when he first arrived had faded—not because he understood the city, but because he'd adapted.
Some say humans are the most adaptable species in the multiverse. Belric was starting to believe it.
The fog thickened. Soon, rain began to fall—dirty droplets washing grime from the air, trickling into the sewers. The stench lightened, just a little.
Belric pushed his cart through the rain, thinking back to the battle three months ago.
At the end of that fight, the demon had lunged toward Mars—or perhaps toward Belric himself. Bone blades erupted from Bird's body, aimed to impale Belric.
If Belric had still been himself in that moment, he would've died. But he wasn't. Something else had taken control—something powerful. A god, perhaps. Or a demon. It didn't matter. What mattered was the name: Mars.
Mars had dodged the attack with ease, then severed Bird's head. But he hadn't watched his footing. He'd walked Belric's body straight into the portal Bird had opened to escape.
Bird died in that town. Belric was left in Mark City.
Mars's spirit receded like a tide, sinking into the depths of Belric's soul. Now, he was little more than a whisper—an old man after a long run, barely able to greet Belric before falling back into sleep.
So Belric stayed. He didn't dare leave. Mark City was the City of Doors—thousands of portals waiting to be opened. The problem was, you never knew where they led.
The safest plan was to survive first.
And to survive, you had to work. That was true on Earth, and it was true here.
Belric had become a laborer. His job? Hauling corpses to the morgue.
He was now a Corpse Collector.
It wasn't a glamorous profession. Even in a place as strange as Mark City, corpse collecting was low-tier work. But Belric had no better options. His father had been a priest, but Belric lacked faith. He couldn't cast divine spells. He had no trade skills. Back on Earth, he'd studied computer science—a laughable degree in a world of magic.
So despite having some magical talent, Belric had no choice but to sell his strength. Fortunately, the morgue was always hiring.
The rain had thinned the crowds, making his route easier.
Belric pushed his cart, marked with the sigil of the Ten Thousand Dead, toward the market district. A pile of corpses awaited him.
Some demons from the Abyss and devils from the Seven Hells had clashed in a dark alley. The skirmish ended in mutual annihilation. No one noticed until the stench became unbearable.
The Blood War—the eternal conflict between demons and devils—spilled into every corner of the multiverse. Even in neutral Mark City, it was unavoidable.
When Belric arrived, a local overseer was already waiting.
"Corpse Collector, huh? I figured you'd show up after the apocalypse. What happened—did you run into a three-story goblin on the way? Your speed is truly inspiring."
The speaker was a bald warrior, wearing the smug face of someone who thought he was in charge.
"You're the one in charge here? Where are the bodies?" Belric asked, swallowing the insult. Life at the bottom meant learning to endure.
"Am I in charge?" The bald man mimicked Belric's tone perfectly. Then he sneered: "Who else would be in charge? You? Don't you know the market district belongs to the Chaos Guild? Ever heard of 'Mad Jadra'?"
Belric shook his head. "No."
"Seven Hells! You—well, fair enough. I just came up with that nickname yesterday. You'd better remember it. Someday, the whole multiverse will know the name Jadra. What do you think of it?"
Belric rubbed his aching forehead. Sometimes he preferred talking to rotting corpses over dealing with Chaos Guild lunatics.
"It's generic. Lacks personality. Has anyone in your guild not been mad? Can you name one?"
"Seven Hells! You—" Jadra's eyes widened. He gasped. "You nailed it. Right on the mark. Personality! That's what it needs. Fine, head down that alley. Follow the stench."
Belric turned his cart toward the alley. Behind him, Jadra muttered to himself:
"Personality… yes. 'Mad' isn't enough. Doesn't do me justice. What should it be…?"
"Hey, Corpse Collector, wait!"
"What now?"
"I told you to remember 'Mad Jadra,' right?"
"Yes."
"Forget it. I'm changing it. I need something with more flair."
"Sure. I'll try." Belric replied weakly. His brain felt scrambled. If this conversation went on any longer, he'd lose his mind. Chaos Guild members had a way of driving people insane just by existing.
"No, not 'try.' You must forget it!" Jadra said sternly.
This time, Belric didn't respond. He pushed the cart deeper into the alley and ran, leaving Jadra behind to mutter alone.
The alley was a maze—twisting, winding, disorienting.
...But Jadra had been right: follow your nose, and you'd find the battlefield.
Deep in the alley, six corpses had already been reduced to mangled chunks of flesh. That was the inevitable outcome of dying in a place like this—faces torn apart, limbs shredded. The battle between demon and devil had clearly been brutal. But the worst part wasn't the fight itself—it was what came after.
Scavengers had passed through.
Everything of value had been stripped from the bodies. Even cursed trinkets weren't spared. Someone—perhaps a hag, a necromancer, or a merchant—had come through and harvested what they needed. Certain spells required demon eyes, devil claws, hearts, brains… anything and everything.
What remained was a pile of meat.
Belric began chanting. A spell shimmered in the air, and an invisible servant materialized beside him. Moments later, a flesh golem crawled out from the pile of gore.
This was magic. The one true skill Belric had mastered after decades in this world. Magic was an art, a mystery, and for a time, Belric had been obsessed with it. As the son of a priest, he'd had the resources to study. His father had even tried to send him to Candlehold to apprentice under a real mage. But after "that incident," everything changed. The plan became impossible. Belric was reduced to a wandering assistant.
He'd thought he'd never be more than a third-rate spellcaster. Three months ago, the invisible servant had been the peak of his abilities. But now, thanks to the black-bound book with the demon face, he'd discovered a trove of dark magic. The flesh golem was one of them.
That battle had been terrifying. Now, Belric was hiding in Mark City, trying to survive alone. His poor old father was still trapped inside the Soulstone, left behind in the Prime.
I'll come for you, old man. Be patient. Once I've regained my strength, I'll start searching for the door home.
Belric shook off the thought and focused on his work. With the help of the invisible servant and the flesh golem, he cleared the alley. Once the cart was full, the golem climbed in and lay down. The servant vanished into thin air.
The remaining scraps? Let the rats have them.
As Belric exited the alley, he saw Jadra again—running around like his pants were on fire.
"Ah! You're here, Corpse Collector! Perfect timing. I need your help with something urgent."
Belric frowned. He wanted to hurl a fireball at that annoying face. Why had he bothered being patient earlier? But he held back. This was Mark City—a neutral zone. No fighting. No vendettas.
So he gritted his teeth and said, "Make it quick. I'm working."
"Of course! Won't take long. I need a new nickname. Something with flair. I'm about to—"
Jadra stopped mid-sentence. His head turned sharply, mouth agape, eyes gleaming with excitement.
Suddenly, he drew his sword. The blade gleamed coldly, its tip aimed at Belric's throat.
"You think I don't know what you think of me? You think I'm insane? I don't care. But right now, give me a nickname. One with personality. Hurry! Time's running out!"
Belric was stunned. He regretted his earlier restraint. Why hadn't he just blasted this lunatic? But he forced his brain to work. The sword was already at his neck. He needed a name. Something that would satisfy this madman.
Why do you even need a nickname? Isn't 'Jadra' enough?
"Wh-what do you mean?"
"You. Jadra. One of a kind. No nickname could ever capture you. When people speak of you, they'll say, 'Ah! That's Jadra!' No adjective could ever suffice."
"Seven Hells! You—!" Jadra gasped, clearly moved. He believed it. But his eyes weren't on Belric—they were fixed on something behind him.
"You nailed it. Right on the mark. I am Jadra. Indescribable. Unique. You're the smartest Corpse Collector I've ever met. Listen—stay here. Don't move. Things are about to get loud. A battle's coming. And quit this job. It's a dead end."
With that, Jadra dashed past Belric.
Belric turned—and saw her.
A woman floated above the street, wrapped in a wide brown robe. Her face was calm, surrounded by gleaming blades. That face held no emotion. Only indifference.
Belric had never seen her before. But he knew exactly who she was.
She was the symbol of Mark City. Its ruler. Or perhaps… she was Mark City itself.
She was the Pain Lady.
A group of attackers—clearly Chaos Guild members—charged toward her. Only they would dare such madness in the market district.
One lunatic reached her first, shouting at the top of his lungs. This was his moment—a chance to declare the guild's philosophy. If the attack succeeded, his words would echo through every alley and tavern. Even if it failed, he'd be remembered.
"Bet you didn't expect this! Today, we—"
That was all he managed. The blades sliced him into pieces. No one saw where they came from. No spell, no gesture. Just a thought—and the man was meat.
The others had planned for this. Two more stepped forward, shouting in unison:
"Today, we prove that order is a lie! All order is false! Chaos is the truth! And you, Lady, you guard your rules—no this, no that! That's wrong! Wrong must be corrected! And we—"
They didn't finish. The blades struck again.
There was supposed to be a third speaker. The plan had been a relay—three voices, one message. But the third man refused to follow the script. He was Chaos Guild. He did what he wanted. Why wait in line? Why be third?
So the speech ended there. Forever.
Jadra charged in with the rest, swords raised, hearts full of conviction. They believed in their cause. The multiverse was born of chaos. All rules were artificial. Think about it—where did order come from? What meaning did it have?
None.
The strongest could die choking on a chicken bone. The wisest alchemist could perish in his own lab. So why couldn't they defeat the Pain Lady?
If they succeeded, it would prove everything. If not—well, at least they'd spread their message.
Jadra trembled with excitement. Even his voice shook:
"I am Jadra! The one and only! Today, I will bring you down, Lady! This world needs no rules! We do what we want—"
The Pain Lady raised a finger.
The world went silent.
A void opened beneath Jadra's feet. No magic surge. No incantation. No gesture. Just space… torn open.
Jadra fell in.
The others vanished too. Some portals appeared directly in their path, sucking them in. Others opened like vacuums, dragging them away.
Belric could only watch in awe. Where had they gone? What kind of doors had the Lady opened? What fate awaited them?
He didn't know. He just pushed his cart farther away—though not too far.
The blades returned to the Lady's side, spinning slowly around her. The attackers were gone in seconds. She hadn't even changed her pace. Killing them was like swatting flies.
Only neatly sliced meat remained.
Belric rushed to collect the corpses. Their armor and weapons? All his now.
What treasures might they hold? Can't wait to find out…
Mark City's morgue wasn't a building. Not in the conventional sense. Even in a city overflowing with the bizarre, the morgue stood apart—more peculiar than peculiar.
When people spoke of the morgue, they didn't mean a single structure. They meant a district. At its center stood a towering edifice built from black granite and… something else. Something unnamed. Possibly the remains of some creature. No one knew for sure.
It had no windows. No grand dome. From the outside, it looked like a tomb—a massive mausoleum. Grim and solemn, its walls carved with funeral motifs. One glance, and you knew: this place dealt in death.
Here, the sound of corpse carts echoed constantly—creaking, scraping, unnerving. Workers bustled about. Some were… unusual.
Like the one across from Belric.
Just by looking at him, you could tell he was thirsty. His face was shriveled, his body emaciated, his eyes hollow, his movements sluggish.
He was a mummy.
"Hey, Belric!" the mummy waved.
"Hey. Long time no see, brother." Belric forced a smile. He'd forgotten the guy's name. Probably a coworker.
"Wait. Did you just call me 'brother'?" the mummy asked.
"Why? Is that wrong?"
"It is. I was a woman, in life." The mummy said seriously. "I bet you forgot my name again, didn't you? You sly dog. I'll tell you once more. If you forget next time, that'll be truly rude. I'm Caitlyn."
Belric had indeed forgotten. But who remembers a corpse's name? The dead go to great lengths to be remembered—carving their names into stone, hoping the living won't forget. But most people die nameless. Forgotten. Even if they crawl out of their graves and say "hi," others will just say:
"Look! A walking corpse!"
Not:
"Look! Caitlyn's saying hi!"
No matter what they do, they're forgotten.
But Belric wouldn't say that. Not to a mummy's face.
"Of course, Caitlyn. How could I forget such a lovely name? You must've been a beauty in life."
"Naturally. Ravishing. Back then, I had full, perky breasts. No one ever mistook me for a man. But now…"
Both of them glanced at Caitlyn's chest. It was as shriveled as the rest of her.
"Hard to tell my gender now, huh?" Caitlyn looked a bit downcast.
"Oh, no, no. Just looking at it, I can imagine your breasts back then. Beautiful shape. Soft. Adorable. Overflowing. Any man lucky enough to kiss Caitlyn's breasts would be blessed beyond measure. And your lips…"
Caitlyn grinned. Mummies don't have teeth, so her smile revealed a gaping black hole. Around it, faint traces of lips remained.
"Ah, yes. Your lips must've been stunning. Rosy as a rose."
"You've got a sweet tongue. I'm starting to like you, you little devil."
Caitlyn traced circles on Belric's chest with her bony finger. Belric stood stiffly, swallowing hard.
"Want to be that lucky man?" she asked.
"What?"
Caitlyn licked her lips. The gesture made Belric's skin crawl.
"I mean, if you want to kiss me, I won't stop you." She leaned closer, whispering: "Any part of me. Wherever you want. I'll open myself to you."
Belric nearly collapsed. He stammered:
"Uh, do you… do you need something? I think I… I've got something urgent. Really sorry, but I have to go…"
Caitlyn suddenly turned serious.