The Cage

Azazel huddled in a street corner, coughing while laying out all his possessions in front of him—a thick book with a black cover adorned with a grotesque demon's face. And then there was a core. Was it an apple core? An almond? Or some sort of mineral? Azazel had no clue. In a last-ditch effort during the battle, he had meant to reclaim the soul-sealing stone containing his father's spirit but in his blind scramble, he retrieved these items instead—belongings of Demon Burd. Along with the book and the core, Azazel had a golden coin, a few silvers and coppers, and also a small black cart that was not his. Beyond these, he owned nothing.

Packing his things, he looked up through the city's smog, thick as oil stains in the sky, and saw another city—another city inverted above his head.

Streets of gray, buildings in disarray, and incessant noise and quarreling painted a less-than-charming picture of the city. Despite his aversion, Azazel had to admit it was the most peculiar city he'd seen.

This was Sigil, the City of Doors.

So many things were said about Sigil, things so outlandish that even Azazel, who had crossed worlds and witnessed innumerable absurdities, found hard to believe. Often Azazel wanted to, and did, say, "You're lying. That's impossible."

And each time, the locals would sneer, "Another rube from the prime."

"Poor sap."

"'Impossible'? Sure, everything's 'impossible' here, so relax a little."

To talk about Sigil, one must first mention the Ultimate Mountain, a peak soaring indefinitely upwards from the center of the Outer Planes, appearing as an inverted icicle. So high that no one, not even the gods, knew its true height. And Sigil, the City of Doors, floated at the apex of this mountain. That was just a part of the rumors.

Even more bizarre tales had been validated by Azazel's own eyes. Sigil had the curious shape of a doughnut or a rubber tire. This colossal, decidedly unsweet "doughnut" hovered horizontally above the peak of the Ultimate Mountain, which faced the hole at the doughnut's center, like an arrow stopped a mere millimeter from its target.

The incredible City of Sigil was built on the inner curve of this ring. Thus, regardless of where you stood on the streets, if you looked up—assuming the view wasn't marred by smog, rain, or mist—the dense architecture loomed overhead.

This peculiar sight took Azazel quite some time to adjust to, and when he related stories of his own world's vast, open blue skies, Sigil's denizens would gasp dramatically, "My, such an expansive sky! Do you not feel unnerved by it?"

"Emptiness above? Can you imagine?"

"Unthinkable—it sounds utterly terrifying."

"To have lived under such a frightening sky for so long, you are indeed brave, Azazel. I'm starting to admire you."

"..."

Thus, when two people stood at opposite ends of Sigil and looked up, they could see each other. Azazel had even seen mages fly "up" to shorten their commute, landing—or crashing—on the other side of the city.

These accounts might sound ludicrous and surely unfeasible, yet this was Azazel's daily reality. He moved through the crowds, glanced upwards, and saw a canopy of buildings. The bewildering "impossibilities" of his early days in Sigil had given way to acceptance, not from understanding but from acclimation. Multiverse theorists often posited that humans are the most adaptable beings in the cosmos, and Azazel was becoming proof of that belief.

The fog overhead thickened, and soon rain began to fall, cleansing the air of its filth as it washed into the gutters. After the downpour, the air carried a somewhat fresher scent.

Pushing his cart, which bore the emblem of the Mortuary, Azazel made his way through the rain toward the bustling district where a collection of corpses awaited him.

In this reflection, Azazel ruminated on the battle from three months prior.

In those final moments, Demon Burd lunged at Gideon—or Azazel, to be precise—with bones piercing through his flesh, intent on impaling Azazel with his own skeletal projections.

If Azazel had been only Azazel at that time, he would have been doomed. But he wasn't; he was controlled by someone far more formidable—be it a god or a demon, it mattered not. What mattered was the name of that entity: Gideon.

With no effort, Gideon dodged the demon's strike and severed Burd's head. Except, Gideon failed to notice the ground beneath him—he and Azazel's body stepped into the portal opened by the demon, who met his end in the town.

The portal, which Burd had opened for his escape, led directly to Sigil.

After the enemy's defeat, Gideon's spirit receded like the tide, leaving behind only Azazel's battered, exhausted body. Gideon was like a grandfather spent after strenuous exercise, barely managing a daily greeting before retreating into the depths of Azazel's mind for more sleep.

Thus abandoned in Sigil, Azazel could not leave, or rather, dared not leave. The City of Doors was filled with countless portals to other planes, with the only problem being you never knew where they led. The safest bet was to survive here first.

To survive meant to work—a truth universal to any world, whether on Earth or in this realm of magic. Although Azazel had a priest for a father, he lacked faith and any divine magic. This was typical of a youth who had grown up under the teachings of Marx and Confucius, having completed nine years of compulsory education in China. And let's not even start on professional skills or craftsmanship. Azazel's previous studies in computer science had been nothing short of tragic.

So, despite possessing some magical aptitude, under the cruel pressures of job-hunting, Azazel had no choice but to sell his labor, finding a year-round position at the Mortuary.

The rain thinned the crowd on the streets, making Azazel's journey more manageable.

Azazel now pushed his cart, marked with the Mortuary's insignia, towards the city center. A heap of bodies awaited his collection. Azazel had become a collector of the dead.

The occupation of a mortician wasn't glamorous, not even in a world as strange as this. But Azazel had little choice. Though he was the son of a cleric, he lacked faith, unable to wield any holy spells—a common reality for anyone who had grown up in China under Marxist and Confucian doctrines. And technical skill or craft? Azazel had studied the unfortunate subject of computer science in his past life at university.

Thus, even though he had some magical skills, the harsh realities of job searching forced him into manual labor. Fortunately, the Mortuary was always hiring.

The rain lessened the number of pedestrians, easing Azazel's path.

Pushing along the small cart emblazoned with the Mortuary's emblem, Azazel headed for the bustling district, where a pile of corpses awaited his collection.