Azazel was growing weary of the tiresome mummy's company. The road home was close, and he wrapped up the conversation with a nonchalant, "Indeed, life is just like that. I've got things to do, so perhaps..."
"By the way, I've got a joke—would you like to hear it?"
"I really have important matters to attend to." Azazel was growing impatient.
"Oh, that's a pity. You're missing out. It was a good one about the planar portals."
Azazel paused, reluctantly turning back. A joke was just a joke, after all. "Fine, I do like a good joke. Go on then."
"This is true—I swear. Just yesterday, a thief tried to use one of these portals to flee to a kingdom on the prime material plane. He's quite the notorious burglar, stolen from many a high-up. Just imagine the scene as he tries to escape through here." Caitlin chuckled to herself, apparently finding the story far funnier than Azazel did.
"Sorry, but what's the punchline?" Azazel asked, not seeing the humor.
"Heh, you sly one, trying to get a rise out of me. These planar gates are meant for the dead. Maybe there's a crematorium or an acid vat on the other side. Who knows what you'll find, but it's certainly not a path for the living. How foolish can a thief be? It's just hilarious to think he might end up as ash in a cremation furnace. I wonder if he managed to steal any gems. I hope not; what a waste that would be. Strange, you're looking a bit pale."
"That's just sleep deprivation. I need to catch up on it. Goodnight!" With that, Azazel hurriedly turned and left.
As he walked home, Caitlin's mocking words echoed in his mind. "What kind of fool does that make him?" That damned mummy called him a fool, a fool just like Azazel. It was infuriating.
※※※
In the interim, Azazel's comprehension of black magic had soared. He was desperate for power, craving the strength to face whatever awaited him on the prime material plane. He knew nothing of the whereabouts of the soul-storing gem that held his father's spirit, nor who held it in their possession. More than the myriad beings from across the multiverse he faced in Sigil, Azazel feared his own kind—humans, with their deceit, irrationality, zealotry. He had to be ready when facing humanity.
As his magical powers advanced, so too did a sense of weakness in his body. Recently, Azazel spent entire days feeling hazy, studying dark magic in his shanty, unable to carry on with physical labor. Even a short walk might knock him unconscious. Fortunately, he didn't need to leave his abode, having amassed quite a collection of valuable items from his days of handling corpses, all stored within a space belt that required a passphrase to open. The belt, taken from a corpse bisected by the Lady of Pain, was undamaged by its former wearer's grisly end.
Azazel would've been at a loss with such a password-protected item, but luckily, the owner had scrawled the passphrase on the back of the belt. Apparently, his memory hadn't been much better than Azazel's.
The belt's storage was vast, weightless, whatever placed inside adding no heft. The original owner's odd collection of items remained, along with Azazel's trove of vials and jars, likely internal organs of exotic creatures, all necessary components for his future study of dark magic.
Another coughing fit seized him, bending him over in pain. When he straightened up, the startling sight of crimson on the ground took him by surprise.
I'm coughing blood now?!
The world spun violently, the ground rolling like tumultuous waves. Azazel felt himself tossed about, unable to steady himself.
He could no longer stand, collapsing onto the floor of his shanty.
Dizziness, fever—it all came rushing over him. Azazel thought he was dying.
For two days, he lay motionless in his shanty, expecting to die. But at some indistinct hour, whether it was dawn or dusk, just when he had resigned himself to his fate, the Black-Robed returned.
The Black-Robed walked into the shanty, saw the barely breathing Azazel, and cast a spell over him.
Brought back from unconsciousness by the spell, Azazel coughed weakly.
"You came. That's good." The spell had its effect; Azazel sat up groggily from his bed. "These past days have been unbearably noisy. Thank goodness you're here."
"Noisy? I didn't notice," the Black-Robed stated calmly.
"Oh, you might not hear it, but it's clear to me. Death itself sharpening its scythe right by my ear. It's waiting to harvest my head."
"That's impossible," the Black-Robed said with finality.
Yes, of course. Because you'd save me. An exceptional talent like me, how could I possibly die? Even in death, I can't perish here. I have to return to the prime material plane; there's an old madman's soul waiting for me to rescue. Azazel locked eyes with the Black-Robed, seeing a glimmer of hope in the bright spots through the black mist.
"Sigil blocks all divine power; no deity would come here," the Black-Robed said before pausing thoughtfully. "You weren't really joking just now, were you? You were making a joke, right?"
"..." Azazel felt even weaker. After a moment, he managed to say, "Are you here to help me?"
"That's right. And I have something to tell you. I am actually the leader of the Dustmen; my name is Skarl. After observing you for some time, I formally invite you to join our ranks."
Ah! Just as expected.
Suddenly, Azazel thought of the demon Burd and asked, "Skarl? Is that your real name?"
"Oh, you do have a sense of humor, something I lack," Skarl replied, then eyed Azazel. After a long pause, he asked doubtfully, "Wait, you're not serious, right? How could anyone think the first name given is the real one?"
Indeed. My father and I were such fools to believe the demon Burd. Azazel weakly gestured, "Of course it's not your real name; I was just kidding. Anyway, that's not the point. Skarl, I honestly enjoy our conversations, but I don't want to join the Dustmen."
"Why not?" Skarl inquired, perplexed.
Because with you, getting something for nothing is impossible! Yet Azazel wouldn't say this aloud: "I feel there are many philosophical differences between us. Your thoughts, I..."
"No, no, no!" Skarl interrupted, emphatically repeating the word. "Before, I might have disagreed with you, but after our last discussion, I fully embrace your views now. We share the same thoughts and ideals. On this, you have no reason to doubt."