Round 25: The City of Ten Thousand Gates

A vast, brightly lit hall—though filled with an indescribably gloomy atmosphere—or rather, a workshop. Massive, towering furnaces sat throughout the hall, emitting deep, heavy roaring sounds like those of giant beasts breathing. Shadows moved among these furnaces, but most of those figures were quite strange… moving slowly and stiffly, wandering in the interplay of light from the flames and various equipment. Occasionally, when two of them crossed paths, they didn’t avoid each other; after colliding, they simply staggered apart and continued their mechanical, monotonous work.

There were also a few figures standing motionless, clad in long black-gray coarse robes. Even when standing close to the flames leaping from the furnaces, they never removed their hoods to breathe. They stood silently, observing the workers around them with cold, indifferent eyes. The people, equipment, and light not only failed to add vitality to the place but instead heightened its eerie atmosphere, making it resemble a group of lifeless puppets controlled by an invisible hand.

This tomb-like silence was suddenly shattered. Without warning, a series of explosive noises came from one of the furnaces in the corner. Blazing flames erupted from every opening, and several laborers nearby were knocked over by the shockwaves. The sudden chaos finally made the hooded supervisors act like normal people—they rushed to the scene, shouting loudly to urge the still dull workers to respond.

Flames spread and heat waves hit, but the situation didn’t escalate further. Some force emanating from the furnaces contained the flames, preventing them from spreading further. Amid the rising steam, the air above the flames began to warp due to temperature differences, taking on a faint red glow—resembling… resembling the shape of an arch.

Kairo, Moriel, and finally, the plane merchant Jacob, were thrown out from within the red glow at the door.

“Where are we?” Kairo asked, rubbing his head.

“Whatever it is, it’s hot enough,” Moriel said, lowering his head to adjust his robe. “Huh? Where’s Forty-Seven?”

Forty-Seven emerged from the burning furnace. Flames wrapped around him like a cloak, with the distorted furnace behind him resembling a blown gun barrel. His red eyes shone brightly amid the flames: “This trip wasn’t too bad… What the hell? Is this set for ‘Zombie Outbreak’?”

It wasn’t strange that he thought so. The numb, slow-moving “people” around him, who didn’t even seem to realize they were on fire, weren’t human—at least definitely not alive.

Their eyes were vacant, their cheeks sunken, and they were wrapped in random clothes and bandages. Most of them lacked small parts like eyes, ears, and fingers, exuding a foul smell of preservative from head to toe. When one of them got too close, Forty-Seven grabbed his belt and threw him away. He disintegrated mid-air, his pieces falling apart along with the flames from his tattered clothes, looking no different from a pile of untidy trash.

“What are you doing? Stop attacking immediately, intruders!” the men in black robes shouted. Morriel could see their gaunt cheeks and sparse beards beneath their hoods, along with the fury in their eyes, as if they had found a swarm of cockroaches in their own kitchen.

“It’s the Dead! It seems we’ve ended up in the Great Mortuary of the Order of Perdition!” Jacob cried. “There’s no need to get entangled with them! Follow me—I know a way out of here!”

Forty-Seven and the others ran after Jacob toward an exit at the other end of the hall. At the commands of the Dead in black robes, the zombies working in the hall switched their targets and surrounded them—unfortunately, just like in movies, these undead had neither speed nor intelligence. Apart from scaring people with their wrinkled, number-marked faces and the pus oozing from their sewn mouths, they posed no real threat.

They left the chaotic hall and entered a corridor. Forty-Seven was at the back, slamming the heavy iron door shut. A zombie arm that had been about to grab his shoulder was severed like thin cloth between scissors, twitching slightly as it fell to the ground. The hinges of the door creaked a few times before locking automatically, while the zombie’s cloudy, milky eyes could only glare through the bars at the Iron Man’s back as it futilely rammed the door, letting out hissing screams.

Jacob quickened his pace down the dim corridor, lined with many closed doors on both sides, and adorned with eerie decorative patterns on the ceiling. It seemed like this place belonged to a different time and space from the incineration room they had just left. Aside from the echoes of their footsteps, nothing else existed—it was as if they were in a giant coffin.

“This way,” Jacob said, turning into a staircase, his hat knocking askew against the beam. “We need to hurry—better leave before more Dead arrive.”

“If they really are called ‘Dead,’ I’d be happy to live up to that name,” Forty-Seven said as they walked.

“Don’t look for trouble. I’ve read about this Marked City faction in the records,” Morriel said, as usual, dampening his enthusiasm. “Whatever you think, I have no interest in provoking a group that can strike peace deals with the undead.”

The stairs wound downward, leading to a room filled with metal beds and various strange devices. Some corpses lay on the iron beds, with tubes extending from nearby machines into their bodies. Some had been dissected, their tendons and ligaments hung up by iron hooks, stretched to show the limits of physical tension, revealing the bare white fragments of their ribs.

A few zombie workers wandered around here, seemingly still unaware of the Dead’s new orders, so they ignored the sudden arrival of Forty-Seven and his group. One Dead, who was working on a corpse beside a dissection table, looked up in shock at these uninvited strangers.

Upon entering, Jacob quickly scanned the surroundings.

“I found it! Everyone, stay close!” He pushed aside a zombie blocking the path, stepped over it, and rushed toward the other side of the room—but there was nothing but a few rows of metal racks against the wall.

Jacob squeezed between the racks, holding a piece of dried human bone, probably taken from some corpse he’d grabbed along the way. The revived dead began shouting, cursing them for disturbing the items in the room and showing disrespect for the dead with their absurd remarks.

“I’m very sorry for causing you so much trouble!” Jacob signaled for the others to come over, then took out a small packet of money from his pocket and threw it at the dead man. “This is a little compensation. I hope it’ll…”

The broken bone in the merchant’s hand started writhing, as if it were still attached to a living body. In response, the metal racks on both sides trembled as if having seizures—getting worse and worse—shaking the bottles and jars on top until they fell everywhere with a clatter.

It happened quickly, in just a few seconds. With a loud crash, one might think the racks had collapsed onto each other—but that wasn’t the case. A lightning-like flash suddenly appeared in the air, shooting from the top of one rack to the ground and then to the other, forming a closed quadrilateral.

The portal opened.

Forty-seven, Moriel, Kayro, Jacob, along with a large amount of dust and some unknown organ that had been soaked in a solution, all fell into several inches of muddy water. The temperature was low, and cold, smoky air surrounded them. The crooked buildings cast distorted, blurry shadows above. Thick, dirty smoke covered their heads like hats, barely rising a little above the chimneys on the filthy rooftops.

Moriel had to stand on piles of trash to avoid the mud at her feet. The rotten vegetables were wet and slimy underfoot, even through her shoes, which made her determined to keep the good habit of preparing one or two cleaning spells every day. Kayro reacted quickly too—the mud splashing at her turned into ice halfway, and the ground beneath her feet froze solid. So, only Jacob was left to endure the sound of the iron-faced man stomping and playing in the mud.

Yet the Planar Merchant’s reaction was rather strange. Instead of calling for help right away, he stood there like a wooden post, staring blankly. His gaze slowly swept over those dilapidated structures, which hardly deserved to be called “houses.” They were all peculiar, rickety, and disorganized, built from wood, stone, or some other materials—clearly sourced from all corners of the world. They leaned on each other, seemingly on the verge of collapse at any moment. Many places were covered in black vines, their branches densely packed with sharp thorns, which seemed to serve some purpose in reinforcing them. Jacob watched everything, not missing the grotesque graffiti on the walls, the piles of trash along the streets, or the clogged sewers. Finally, he gazed long at the depths of the alley, where everything was blurred by mist that obscured visibility, stretching up into the equally foggy sky.

“What exactly are you looking for?” Since no one responded, Forty-Seven stopped his pranks.

Jacob spoke, his voice different from usual. “City of Marks… City of Ten Thousand Doors.” His voice was low and slow, as if not coming from his mouth but from some distant place: “A deep pit filled with all kinds of beasts, a cage imprisoning all races, a truly neutral haven, a wreath atop the Peak of Infinity, a magnificent and wondrous place… Dangerous, astonishing, incredible… City of Marks.”

After delivering this almost operatic monologue, the merchant came back to his senses. He met Moriel’s surprised gaze and smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I was rude… But no matter how many places I’ve visited or how much I’ve seen, the City of Marks always amazes and reminds me of home… Even if it’s considered the worst swamp by many.”

Forty-Seven also looked in the direction Jacob had been staring at. He wasn’t interested in those shabby houses, no different from slums, and the greasy mist couldn’t hide his vision. So clearly, the metal man could see further, spotting something that piqued his interest.

“Interesting structure… Indeed nostalgic,” Forty-Seven said to himself, tilting his head back and turning it slowly.

The female mage was sure that Ironface, like her, had never been to the City of Marks before—but she knew even better that Ironface said whatever came to mind, so nothing he said was surprising.

The Planar Merchant stepped away a few paces, out of the mud, and didn’t forget to discard the bone in his hand. Otherwise, he might be sucked back into that lifeless, death-filled place behind him, through that dark doorway with only half of its crumbling door panel left.

“Though there were some setbacks…” Jacob bowed slightly at them. “I’ve finally fulfilled my promise and brought you all safely to the City of Marks.”

“Well, then, my work here comes to an end. Though I’d be happy to continue helping you all, but…” He pondered for a moment before deciding to be straightforward: “But, to avoid ridicule, I do know my limits. With my abilities, I can at least take care of myself, but diving into such a dangerous situation is far too risky. As for those who oppose you… yes, I know a few of them. Miss Morriel, I suppose you must know the two mages who set a trap in Cage City to ambush you and the Iron Warrior? There’s something I must tell you. Based on my analysis of that portal trap, if I’m not mistaken, its intended destination was likely Flaggthos.”

“Flaggthos?” Morriel stepped onto drier ground. The alley was dim and quiet, with no one else around aside from them. That awkwardly pronounced word seemed to evoke an inexplicable shiver in the hearts of those alone there, making their hairs stand on end.

“That’s right, Flaggthos—the fourth layer of the Batho Otherworld, the Hell of Scorching Heat, the Abyss of Flames.” The merchant followed Morriel’s gaze. “Firstly, it’s undoubtedly connected to the Cursed Gate in Pryx’s manor… But as far as I know, its default exit is the Bronze Fortress on the first layer of the Batho Otherworld. Ordinary people can’t withstand Flaggthos’s harsh environment, and the Bathzu demons usually don’t want others to go this deep into the Batho Otherworld.”

Jacob paused, and the female mage stopped rubbing her boots against the ground and looked up. “What do you mean?”

“To change the exit of the Cursed Gate, those two mages can’t do it, Pryx can’t do it either, and even Lord Baire, the ruler of the first layer of hell, might find it difficult.” He began rubbing his fingers again, meeting Morriel’s gaze. “In fact, I even doubt those two created that portal. After all, they’re just primary matter beings. Such things are unimaginable unless one is a being very experienced in traveling between dimensions. And it seems to require some kind of intense energy as a key… If the Iron Warrior had acted there right away, we’d most likely be in Flaggthos now, rather than arriving in Seal City from the Burner of the Dead.”

At that point, he glanced at Forty-Seven. If only there were paper and pen—those words could definitely be carved from the Iron Man’s face.

“So…,” Morriel sighed softly. “There are even more troublesome figures behind Dagulas than Lord Baire of the first layer?”

Jacob lowered his head.

“Well then,” the female mage nodded. “No wonder. Just mentioning the names of the Nine Lords of Hell is enough to send chills down one’s spine. I understand you. But…”

She also looked up at the foggy sky. “Do us one last favor. It’s undeniable that any primary matter being who comes to Seal City for the first time is a complete country bumpkin. Before we part, could you recommend a slightly better place to stay, one with fewer flies and thieves?”

Jacob answered without hesitation, skillfully. “As you wish, Miss Morriel!”