The demon book with the black leather cover was a rare and wondrous artifact. If it weren't, Demon Bird wouldn't have used it to tempt Belric's father all those years ago.
Its most peculiar trait? Anyone could use it. When you first opened the book, you'd find only the most rudimentary dark spells. But if you tried to skip ahead—hoping to bypass the basics and dive straight into advanced magic—you'd find the pages unreadable. The symbols would twist and writhe, some even leaping off the page. You couldn't understand a single word.
But as your grasp of dark magic deepened, the book would begin to reveal more. Stronger spells. Forbidden knowledge. The unreadable glyphs would rearrange themselves before your eyes, forming coherent incantations. The book grew with its reader.
And the hardest part of learning dark magic wasn't finding a good textbook—it was finding the right materials.
Most of those materials were corpses.
In the Prime Plane, desperate warlocks often resorted to grave-robbing. Some even committed murder just to get a fresh body. A few managed to survive the wrath of justice. Most were burned alive—cleansed by holy fire.
But what was a problem for most people was no problem for Belric.
Mark City saw death every day. And not just ordinary death—creatures from every corner of the multiverse died here. Devils from Hell, demons from the Abyss, celestials from the heavens, beastfolk from the wilds. Mark City was the City of Ten Thousand Gates. It welcomed travelers from everywhere—and sent corpses back the same way.
Sure, it was neutral territory. But that only applied to the main streets. In the alleys? Anything could happen. The Pain Lady might save a soul or two, but she wasn't exactly known for her mercy. And she didn't always feel like playing hero.
Belric had visited the morgue a few times. He was curious—how did they handle so many corpses?
To his surprise, the place was spotless. Clean. Spacious. And deep within lay a massive array of teleportation gates.
Each gate was labeled in bold Common script, indicating its destination. One led to Mount Celestia. Another to the Abyss. Others to Hell, the Prime Plane, and countless other realms.
The first time Belric saw them, his cheeks flushed with excitement. He coughed violently—so much so that others thought he might collapse. His coughing fits had grown worse lately, but he didn't care.
Just a minor illness. He'd see a healer when he had time.
Home was just ahead. No way he'd let a little sickness slow him down. Belric straightened up and began walking toward the gate to the Prime Plane.
"Hey there, Belric. Remember me?"
A dried-up corpse blocked his path.
Belric stared blankly. Like all corpses, it had a vacant expression, hollow eyes, and a sunken chest. How was he supposed to recognize it? To the average person, all corpses looked the same.
But then he saw something familiar—a maggot crawling out of the eye socket.
"Cough… How could I forget? Caitlyn, right? Hey, how've you been?"
Caitlyn shrugged. In life, the gesture might've been playful. In death, it was stomach-turning.
"Same old, same old. Skin's tight, always dry. No matter what I do, I can't moisturize. The weather here is awful. Still, I'm touched you remembered me. Why didn't you come find me after that day?"
"Ah, well… why didn't I? Because you're a shriveled corpse, that's why. Even necrophiles would steer clear. Why would I seek you out?"
Of course, saying that out loud would be suicidal. So Belric quickly came up with a lie.
"I meant to visit, really. But I didn't know where you lived. That's the only reason."
"Seven Hells! I'm such an idiot—I forgot to give you my address. My memory's getting worse. Let me tell you—"
"Wait!" Belric interrupted. "Didn't you stop me because you had something important to say? Maybe you forgot?"
He had zero interest in learning her address. Especially if her place was nicer than his shack—that would be both humiliating and infuriating.
Caitlyn tilted her head, thinking.
"Forgot something? Hmm… maybe. If I did, it probably wasn't important. Anyway, let's get back to what we were talking about. Where were we?"
"You were going to show me around the morgue. Give me a tour."
Belric glanced around nervously. The place looked empty. No decorations. No layout worth mentioning.
"Oh, right! My memory again. This is your first time here, isn't it? This is my workplace—the morgue. It houses Mark City's largest cluster of teleportation gates. Every corpse gets sent back to its original plane through one of these portals."
"But why not bury them here?"
"This is a city, darling. Space is expensive. The Ten Thousand Dead considered running a burial business, but the costs were too high. Land's too pricey."
"How do you know that?"
"Know what?"
"That the higher-ups thought it was too expensive."
Caitlyn chuckled.
"Oh, my sweet little flirt—that's just basic economics. Anyone with half a brain could figure it out. Besides, they asked me to test it."
Being called brainless by a maggot-infested corpse wasn't exactly pleasant. Belric wanted to scream: "Do you even know what game theory is? Ever heard of a financial crisis?" But he held back. Arguing economics with a corpse was a waste of breath. And truth be told, Belric wasn't great with economics anyway.
So he changed the subject.
"Test what?"
"They asked me to be a model. Dug a grave, built a fancy coffin, laid me inside, and buried me. Oh, it was exquisite. Jet-black coffin—probably made from soulwood harvested in the Seventh Hell. Lying inside felt amazing. I felt centuries younger. Like I was being buried all over again."
"Sounds… magical."
"It was! You can't imagine it. The lid slowly closed, darkness wrapped around me, and they lowered me into the earth like I was fragile glass. Then came the sound of dirt. And finally—silence. I think I'm the only one in Mark City who's had that experience."
"I believe it." Most corpses in Mark City didn't get burials. And no living person would willingly lie in a coffin.
"You really think so? That's wonderful. Too bad they dug me up later. Sold the land to a yugoloth merchant. Absolutely dreadful. But that's life—or death. Nothing ever goes the way you want."
(Yugoloths: a race of fiendish mercenaries. Neither demons nor devils, they operate independently, strictly neutral. In the Blood War, they claim neutrality—but always help the weaker side. War is profitable, after all.)
Belric was growing tired of the conversation. He wanted to ditch Caitlyn and get home.
"You're right. Life's like that. Anyway, I've got things to do, so—"
"Wait! Want to hear a joke?"
"Not really. I'm busy."
"Your loss. It's about the teleportation gates. Thought you'd enjoy it."
Belric sighed and turned back.
"Fine. Let's hear it."
"It's a true story. Yesterday, a thief tried to escape through one of these gates—into a country on the Prime Plane. He'd stolen from some big names. Thought he could flee through the corpse gates. Isn't that hilarious?"
Caitlyn burst into laughter.
"Uh… sorry, what's the punchline?"
"Oh, come on! These gates are for corpses. Who knows what's on the other side? Could be a crematorium. Could be an acid pit. Definitely not a place for the living. That thief might've turned to ash the moment he arrived. What a moron. Hope he didn't have any gems on him—what a waste. You look pale."
"Just sleep-deprived. I need to rest. Good night."
Belric turned and walked away.
On the way home, Caitlyn's voice echoed in his mind:
"What kind of idiot would do that?"
That idiot was him. Damn it.
During this time, Belric's understanding of dark magic had advanced rapidly. He craved power—desperately. No one knew what awaited him upon returning to the Prime Plane. He had no idea where the Soulstone containing his father's soul had ended up, or whose hands it had fallen into.
Compared to the bizarre creatures of Mark City, Belric feared his own kind far more: humans. Deceptive, unpredictable, fanatical. Facing humans required preparation.
As his magical strength grew, so did his physical weakness. In recent days, Belric had spent all his time holed up in his shack, studying the demon book. He could no longer perform manual labor. Even walking a short distance made him dizzy.
Fortunately, he didn't need to leave the house. During his time as a Corpse Collector, he'd amassed a decent stash—stored in a magical belt that required a password to open. He'd looted it from a corpse that had been bisected by the Pain Lady. The cut was clean, just above the belt. The item was untouched.
Originally, Belric had no idea how to unlock it. But the previous owner had helpfully written the password on the back of the belt. Apparently, they had memory issues.
The belt was high-quality: spacious, weightless, and enchanted to reduce burden. No matter what you put inside, it never got heavier. Inside were strange items collected by the original owner, plus Belric's own assortment of jars and vials—mostly organs from unusual creatures. Essential ingredients for future dark magic.
Another coughing fit struck. Belric doubled over. When he straightened up, he saw something alarming on the floor.
Blood.
He'd coughed up blood.
Suddenly, the world spun. The ground beneath him felt like a stormy sea. Everything swayed.
He collapsed inside his shack.
Dizziness. Fever. A creeping sense of death. Belric felt like he was dying.
He lay there for two days, unmoving. He thought he might die. But on the second day—perhaps at dawn, perhaps dusk—just as despair took hold, the Black-Robed Man returned.
He entered the shack, looked at Belric's pale, trembling body, and cast a spell.
Under its effect, Belric slowly regained consciousness. He coughed weakly.
"You came. Thank the gods," Belric murmured, sitting up. "It's been so noisy these past few days. Good thing you showed up."
"Noisy? I didn't notice," the Black-Robed Man replied calmly.
"Oh, you probably couldn't hear it. But I could. Death's been sharpening his scythe right next to my ear. Once it's sharp enough, he'll come for my head."
"Impossible," the man said flatly.
Yes. Of course. Because you'll save me. I'm too valuable to die here. I have to return to the Prime Plane. There's still a madman's soul waiting for me to rescue it.
Belric stared at the glowing points in the man's shadowed hood. In them, he saw hope.
"Mark City blocks all divine power. No god can reach this place," the man added. Then he paused. "Wait… were you joking just now?"
"…" Belric felt even weaker. After a long silence, he finally asked:
"You came to help me?"
"Exactly. And I have something to tell you. I am, in fact, the leader of the Ten Thousand Dead. My name is Skarl. After observing you for some time, I formally invite you to join our organization."
Ha! Called it.
Suddenly, inexplicably, Belric thought of Demon Bird. So he asked:
"Skarl? Is that your real name?"
"Oh, you're funny. I suppose that's what I lack," Skarl replied, staring at Belric. Belric stared back. After a long pause, Skarl frowned.
"Wait… you're not serious, are you? You actually think I'd give you my real name? Who the hell believes the first name someone offers is genuine?"
Exactly. My father and I were those idiots. Demon Bird was a bastard.
Belric waved a hand weakly.
"Of course it's not your real name. I was joking. Anyway, that's not the point. Skarl, I enjoy our conversations—but I don't want to join the Ten Thousand Dead."
"Why not?" Skarl asked. "We need people like you. And joining comes with a benefit you won't find anywhere else: the Death Ceasefire Pact."
"Death Ceasefire Pact?"
"Yes. It took centuries of negotiation, but it's finally complete. Once you join, all intelligent undead will refrain from attacking you—unless you show clear hostility. It's a binding agreement."
"That's… incredible. How did you manage that?"
"Not your concern."
"…"
"Let's stay on topic. Join us."
"I'm honored to be invited by the leader himself. But I…" Belric gestured vaguely, trying to strengthen his argument. "I don't want to be tied down. I don't want responsibilities. Is there a guest elder position or something?"
"No."
"Could you create one?"
"You want me to invent a high-ranking role with all the perks and none of the duties?" Skarl stood up. "You must be joking again. Status, power, responsibility—these things are always proportional. No one gets something for nothing."
"Fine. I won't join."
"Why?" Skarl asked, genuinely confused.
Because in your organization, getting something for nothing is impossible. Of course, Belric didn't say that. Instead, he offered:
"I think our philosophies differ. Your beliefs… I…"
"No, no, no!" Skarl interrupted, waving his hands. "That used to be true. But after our last conversation, I've completely embraced your worldview. Our philosophies are perfectly aligned. No need to doubt that."