The Black-Robed Man was Belric's conversational partner, sparring companion, and occasional philosophical adversary. His entire body was shrouded in a long black robe, the hood concealing his face beneath a veil of thick, swirling darkness. Only two faint glimmers of light marked where his eyes should be. His hands were always folded across his chest, and no one had ever seen his true appearance. Not even his skin color was known—some whispered he had no skin at all. Others claimed he was a ghost.
The only certainty was that he had been in Mark City for a very long time. And he held power. Considerable power. Some speculated he was a high-ranking member of the Ten Thousand Dead.
Just as the Chaos Guild ruled the market district, the Ten Thousand Dead governed the morgue.
To Belric, both organizations were equally bizarre. Their beliefs, their philosophies—none of it made much sense. But if he had to choose, the Ten Thousand Dead were at least more tolerable. Even if half of them were dried-up corpses like Caitlyn.
"Thanks for the help," Belric said.
"Oh, it's nothing," Caitlyn replied. "But if you really feel indebted, come find me tonight. Don't keep me waiting." As she spoke, a maggot crawled out of her hollow eye socket.
Belric turned away and sprinted toward his home.
From a distance, he could already see it. Calling it a "home" was generous—it was more of a shack. A crooked little shelter cobbled together from wooden planks and whatever scraps were available. It looked so fragile, a stiff breeze might knock it over. Fortunately, Mark City had no wind.
He'd been given the shack on his first day of work. Belric still remembered the words of the man who'd shown it to him:
"From now on, this is your home. You'll live here."
"It's… pretty run-down."
"It's your first day. What kind of treatment were you expecting?"
"Fair enough. I get it. So how long does this place belong to me?"
The man had given him a strange look, then said:
"Even after you die, this place is yours. As long as you're here, it's yours forever."
No rent. No property fees. No down payment. No mortgage. It was bliss. Sure, there was no water, no electricity, no cleaning service, no landscaping—but those were minor inconveniences. The important thing was: Belric had a place of his own.
"You ran back?" said the man inside, seated in a rickety chair. "Impressive. You almost outran a snail."
His voice was dry, monotone, like a cellar that hadn't changed in a thousand years. It was unsettling. But Belric had grown used to such things. After surviving Caitlyn's flirtations, strange voices didn't faze him.
"Sorry," Belric replied naturally. "Got held up. Have you been waiting long?"
The Black-Robed Man shrugged.
"Hard to say. Time doesn't mean much to me. But tell me—what held you up?"
So Belric recounted everything he'd seen in the market district. When he finished, he asked curiously:
"What kind of person is the Pain Lady? That last move of hers—absolutely stunning. Do you know—"
"Shh!" the Black-Robed Man cut him off. "Quiet. Stop talking."
He rushed out of the shack, scanned the surroundings, then returned and cast several spells in quick succession. Only then did he speak:
"Don't talk about her here. Not in Mark City. Do you want to die? Or worse?"
Belric frowned, unimpressed by the man's paranoia.
"Seriously? She can hear us from here? Her ears are that sharp?"
"Maybe we're safe now. But I'm not sure. It's possible the entire city is filled with her eyes and ears. Some say she knows everything that happens here. Others claim this city is merely her dream—and we're all living inside it. Nothing is certain. The only certainty is that no one knows what she is. A person? A god? Something else entirely?"
"Then how do people deal with her?"
"Fool. No one deals with her. She's never spoken to anyone. If you want to try greeting her, go ahead. Others have tried. Their fates were the same as those Chaos Guild lunatics who attacked her."
The Black-Robed Man let out a strange laugh—like a ghost wailing in a crypt.
"Heh… heh… heh… Either torn to pieces or thrown into her dimensional maze. Both are works of art. Beautiful. She truly is one of a kind."
Belric interpreted the laugh as one madman admiring another, but he wasn't foolish enough to say so aloud.
Instead, he asked:
"Dimensional maze? What's that?"
"I don't know the details. Most who enter never return. There are rumors, though—some say a few have escaped, bringing back treasures and fragments of knowledge. The maze is said to be a massive cubic realm, built by the Pain Lady herself. A labyrinth filled with traps and monsters. And yes, it has exits. No one knows why she built it. Maybe she throws people in when she's bored—like children watching mice run through a maze."
"But I didn't see her cast any spells. No gestures. No magic buildup."
"Her mouth never moves. Sometimes I wonder if her face is just a mask. But that's irrelevant. She doesn't need incantations. Haven't you heard? 'The Pain Lady is Mark City. She represents it.' She can open any door, anywhere, just by thinking about it."
Belric whistled.
"No wonder she never carries a purse. Wait—you said she can open any door? She knows every door in Mark City?"
"Of course. She knows them all. And where they lead. Don't tell me you're thinking of asking her for directions."
"Why not give it a shot?"
"Your stupidity astounds me. Instead of bothering her, let me recommend someone else."
"Who?"
"Work here for three more months. Then I'll tell you. We're always short on hands in the Ten Thousand Dead. Especially young ones like you."
Three months wasn't long. Belric nodded.
"Deal. Can you tell me more about her?"
"Heh. You admire her, don't you? Awed by her power? You don't even know what she's done. You haven't seen her true strength."
"What did she do to earn your admiration?"
"It's not what she did. It's what she does. Her most astonishing ability is this: she can block divine power. No one knows how. But no god can extend their influence into Mark City. Not the Nine Gods of Light, not the strongest evil deities—none. If they come here, they obey her. One god once tried to challenge her. His corpse still floats in the Astral Sea like cosmic trash."
"Wait… she killed a god?" This time, Belric had no witty retort.
"Yes. She killed a god. That arrogant fool's body still drifts through the Astral Sea like a piece of galactic garbage. Without her strength, Mark City couldn't remain neutral."
The conversation about the Pain Lady ended there. Most residents of Mark City knew these things. But beyond that, no one knew more. She was a mystery wrapped in riddles. Her worshippers tried to understand her. Her enemies tried harder. But all anyone knew was this:
"She's powerful. Don't get close. If you see her, walk the other way."
The Black-Robed Man only spoke of her once. Most of the time, he and Belric discussed death—and the philosophy of the Ten Thousand Dead.
Belric, having lived two lives, had a wealth of experience. In his previous world, he'd read Socrates, Descartes, Bacon, Kant. He'd spent years arguing on internet forums, sharpening his rhetorical skills. So he often held the upper hand.
But the Black-Robed Man's understanding of death was unexpectedly profound. Belric suspected he was already dead—and had been for a long time. And who understands death better than the dead?
Their debates always began with a question.
"What do you think death is?" Belric asked.
"Death is an end. A withering. A fading. The conclusion of life. The end of all things. The final destination. No one escapes death. Even the multiverse will one day die. That is death—inevitable, inescapable."
His voice, paired with the dilapidated shack and the occasional zombie shuffling past outside, sent a chill down Belric's spine. It was like death itself had pulled up a chair.
"No, no, no. That's not how I see it," Belric countered. "You're treating life and death as opposites. That's a mistake."
"Aren't they opposites? Like black and white, good and evil, ice and fire—life and death. What's the issue?"
"Let me put it this way. Flowers bloom, and then they wilt. Life comes, and death follows. Death isn't the opposite of life—it's its companion. Always present. Always near."
"Exactly. Even gods fall. Their so-called immortality is only relative to mortals."
The Black-Robed Man nodded. Few people ever sat and talked with him like this. Most were too busy surviving, too caught up in the grind. To him, thinkers were rare. Though many would say people like him were just bored lunatics with too much time.
"See? They're not opposites. They're inseparable. Life is a journey, and death is the destination. Like light and shadow. Two sides of the same coin. Not in conflict—just intertwined."
"That's a brilliant metaphor. A journey… I like that. Then what's the point of the journey? What's the meaning of life, if it all ends in death? They fight, they love, they steal, they help—what's the point?"
The Black-Robed Man was genuinely asking. He found Belric fascinating.
The meaning of life? Why do we live? These questions had been debated for millennia on Earth, with no definitive answer. Some called death the only real philosophical problem. Even the sharpest minds couldn't solve it. And philosophy, by nature, is the art of asking questions that break your brain and offer no resolution.
Belric pretended to ponder. In truth, he was recalling books from his past life.
To the Black-Robed Man, the young man before him seemed to awaken from deep thought, eyes gleaming with insight—as if he'd glimpsed the essence of existence.
Then Belric spoke. And his words shook the Black-Robed Man to his core. No—his entire worldview was shattered and reforged. From that day forward, a new cult began to stir in Mark City.
"You ask me what life means?" Belric said with a cryptic smile. "Life means nothing. It's a joke. A rather elegant prank."
The Black-Robed Man was thunderstruck. Frozen. Though his face was hidden behind shadow, Belric could feel the shock radiating from him.
But Belric wasn't done.
"Death is the only real philosophical question."
"Brilliant. That's exactly it."
Of course it was brilliant. Camus said it. You don't win a Nobel Prize for nothing.
Belric continued his "reflection," though it was really just memory. But his train of thought was interrupted by a violent coughing fit—almost enough to tear his lungs out. He looked like a frail prophet, coughing up wisdom.
"People need lies," he said after recovering. "They need to believe their lives are busy, meaningful—or at least too hectic to think about it. Most people live that way. But we can't. You can't. You're part of the Ten Thousand Dead. We must pierce the fog. See the truth."
"Then what should we do?" The Black-Robed Man's breathing grew rapid. His eternal monotone finally cracked.
Gotcha, Belric thought. Hook, line, and cult leader. A high-ranking position sounded better than hauling corpses all day.
"We should treat each morning as a birth. Each night as a death. That way, every day becomes a warning bell—reminding us of life's brevity and futility. I believe, with enough practice, we'll meet death calmly. We'll have rehearsed it countless times."
"Ah… ah… ah…" The Black-Robed Man could only gasp, unable to form words. It took him a long moment to recover, and even longer to speak again.
"It's… it's genius. This will be our new doctrine. The Ten Thousand Dead will live by this."
Belric was quietly pleased. Of course it was genius. That was Dostoevsky. Gorky called him "the greatest genius." If Tolstoy was the breadth of Russian literature, Dostoevsky was its depth. How could his words not shake people?
If only I'd read more philosophy, Belric thought. This guy might've dropped to his knees.
From that point on, the Black-Robed Man launched into a fevered monologue. Inspired by Belric, his mind leapt forward, crossing thresholds he hadn't even known existed. A new theory—a revised doctrine for the Ten Thousand Dead—was born in that tiny shack.
"Life is an illusion. A joke. A beautiful prank. It's just a journey, and the destination is death. All beings are dying—some faster, some slower. If you're wise, you'll see through the illusion. You'll see the truth of life. And death… death is the only truth in this universe. The final rest. The absolute peace. Worship death. Or at least respect it."
From that day on, the Ten Thousand Dead grew rapidly. They attracted a swarm of believers—most of them human. Only humans were foolish enough to fall for this nonsense.
But Belric didn't yet realize the impact of his words. The Black-Robed Man, back to his usual monotone, began rambling about long-term plans, rules, and the eternal dance of life and death.
Not a word about promotion. Not a single extra coin.
Before leaving, he did repeat one thing:
"Keep working. Three more months."
So Belric returned to his job—hauling corpses. And studying his demon book.
Deep within his soul, Mars had grown weaker. Sometimes, Belric wouldn't hear him for days. Was he dying? Who was he, really? Was he truly Mars?
There were no answers.