"That's one way to put it," Azazel mused. "She has indeed killed a god, and that presumptuous soul's body now drifts in the Astral Plane, like interstellar trash. Without the Lady's formidable power, how could Sigil possibly maintain its neutrality?"
The topic of the Lady concluded there; indeed, most residents of Sigil knew these accounts, but beyond that, knowledge was scarce. The Lady of Pain was an amalgam of countless enigmas, adored by some who sought to understand her, and more urgently, by enemies who wished to unravel her secrets. Nonetheless, the fundamental understanding remained the same for everyone: "The Lady is mighty; steer clear, and better yet, take a detour upon seeing her."
The Black-Robed spoke of the Lady only once, usually discussing death and the Dustmen's philosophy with Azazel. Having been a person in two lifetimes, with a rich tapestry of experiences, including those from a land with philosophers like Confucius and Lao Tzu, Azazel was well-versed in ancient wisdom. This, combined with his frequent participation in online debates, often gave him the upper hand. However, the Black-Robed's insights into death were unexpectedly profound. Azazel could almost be sure the Black-Robed had long been a dead man, his understanding of death sharpened by personal experience. Thus, they each harbored distinct views on "death."
Their debates often began with a probing question.
"What do you think death is?" Azazel inquired.
"Death is the conclusion, the withering, the decay. It is the end of life, the finale for all existence, the ultimate destination. No one escapes death. Not even the multiverse itself will evade this fate. That is death, inevitable and inescapable," the Black-Robed declared, his chilling voice blending with the decrepit shack's ambiance and the occasional shambling zombie passing by, casting a spectral air over the conversation.
"No, no, no! That won't do. You're positing life and death as opposites; that's incorrect. I don't see it that way."
"Are life and death not opposites? Black and white, good and evil, fire and ice, and ultimately, life and death. Do you question this?"
"Let me frame it thus: blossoms bloom, thus blossoms fall. Where there is life, death will follow. Death trails life, never parting, eternally companionate, right?"
"Exactly. Even the gods fall, their so-called immortality merely relative to mortals," the Black-Robed agreed, nodding gravely. Few would converse with him; most were too busy with day-to-day survival, too devoid of thought. In his eyes, most people were senseless; only a handful, like himself, were deemed thoughtful.
"Look, they are not adversarial forces but rather entwined. If you have life, you will indubitably face death. It's simply a journey where life is the scenic route, and death, the endpoint. Just as light pairs with shadow, just as a coin has heads and tails, they are two sides of the same entity, closely linked, never conflicting."
"Ah, that's a splendid analogy. A journey, I like that. Then, what is the meaning of life? If all ends in death, what significance do struggles, battles, love, hatred, theft, assistance hold?" queried the Black-Robed earnestly, evidently enchanted by the young man's wisdom.
The meaning of survival? Why do we live? Such inquiries had endured for thousands of years without resolution, with some philosophers deeming death the sole philosophical question. How could the Black-Robed hope to fathom an answer alone, when philosophical issues are those that could drive one mad with their impenetrability? How could he, single-handedly, surpass the countless philosophical minds of Earth?
Azazel feigned profound contemplation while, in fact, recalling books from his previous life.
In the Black-Robed's eyes, the young man awoke from his ruminations radiating wisdom as if he had pierced through the essence of existence. Then Azazel spoke, his words reshaping the Black-Robed's entire worldview, bringing forth a new, influential cult within Sigil from that day forward.
"What meaning does life have?" Azazel posed with an enigmatic smile. "Life has no meaning; it is but a joke, a rather good prank."
The Black-Robed was thunderstruck, motionless as if his obscured face were hidden within the dense black mist. Despite not seeing the Black-Robed's expression, Azazel felt his astonishment but was not about to let the thinker off so easily.
Azazel pressed on: "The question of death is the only significant philosophical issue."
"Precise, indeed," the Black-Robed concurred.
Of course, it was precise—those were Camus's words, and how could the Nobel Prize be won so easily?
Azazel's musing was interrupted by a violent cough, his body frail like a vulnerable prophet. After the fit, he continued: "People need deception, to believe their lives are busy, meaningful, or at least not to think about these questions, or to be too busy to consider them. That's how most people live. But we can't afford that, and neither can you, as a member of the Dustmen. We must pierce through the mist to see the essence."
"What should we do then?" The Black-Robed asked, his breath quickening, his typically unchanging tone finally showing a trace of variation.
Ah, got you hooked, haven't I? Azazel thought, securing a spot in the higher echelons of this esoteric organization might be more appealing than hauling corpses every day.
"We should regard every morning we wake as a birth, and every night we sleep as death. Each day should be a reminder, a clarion call of life's brevity and lack of meaning. I believe, with such practice, we shall find peace at death, having rehearsed it so often."
"Ah, ah, ah, ah!" The Black-Robed was nearly speechless, unable to form coherent sentences for a while. Only after regaining composure did he reclaim his linguistic faculties: "That is profoundly brilliant; this will serve as the future manifesto of the Dustmen."
Azazel inwardly celebrated. How could it not be brilliant? Those were Dostoevsky's words, whom Gorky hailed as "the greatest genius." If Tolstoy represented the breadth of Russian literature, Dostoyevsky was its depth. How could such a genius's words not be profound? How could one not be moved? The Black-Robed's reaction proved just that.
Regrettably, Azazel lamented the scarcity of books. If he had read more philosophical texts, the Black-Robed might have knelt before him right then.
Regrettably, he was out of stock, his little brother unsuccessful in his collection.
From there, the Black-Robed dominated the fervent monologue. Inspired by Azazel—or rather, by Camus and Dostoevsky—the Black-Robed's thoughts leaped over many thresholds in a flash. A new doctrine and philosophical theory for the Dustmen began to take shape in that humble shack.
"Life is but an illusion, a joke, a beautifully cruel farce. It is nothing more than a journey, with death as the sole destination for all living beings. Every person or creature is on a gradual decline to demise, sooner or later. Thus, if you are wise enough, you can see through that illusion to the very essence of life. Therefore, death is the only truth of this universe, the ultimate fate, absolute serenity. Worship, or at least, respect death."
Following the establishment of this philosophical agenda, the Dustmen rapidly grew in strength, attracting a flock of fools who believed in these words—most of them humans, for only the foolish humanity might believe such tales.
But on that day, Azazel was oblivious to the significance of his words. The Black-Robed reverted to his unchanging tone, relentlessly speaking of future plans, rule-making, and the endless enigma of life and death.
Azazel had hoped for promotion, but the Black-Robed made no mention of it, not even offering an extra green coin in wages. Instead, he reiterated the necessity of working another three months before leaving.
Thus, Azazel was left to continue his work—carrying corpses and studying his book of demonic lore. Deep within, Gideon grew weaker, sometimes silent for days on end. Would he die? Who was he, really? Was he truly Gideon? What was his surname? It seemed these questions might remain forever unanswered.