When Little Qianning uttered those words—”Then let’s wait for one more piece of evidence”—in the cavern beneath the lake, Ode had lied.
There was no need to wait any longer. The cavern under the lake was the second piece of evidence Ode had been awaiting. The first had come much earlier, back when he was at Cavendish Manor, poring over those Druid books—
“What the…” Ode stood before the bathroom mirror, twisting his body awkwardly to get a better look at the awkward thing sprouting from his back. “Wings?? Oh, fantastic! The Fish Swimming Spell turns me into a mermaid, the Flying Bird Spell into an angel… so what do I turn into? A werewolf? Mr. White Rabbit?”
Naked from the waist up, Ode slammed his fist into the balled-up shirt and plopped down on the edge of the bathtub. He hadn’t even fully settled on the porcelain when a crash echoed from behind him: “Clang… splat!”
“…” Ode froze. After a long moment, he buried his face deeply in his palms. Amid the solemn silence, vibrant wings unfurled and draped around him, enclosing him in their embrace.
If the Fish Swimming Spell had turned him into a mermaid, he could still console himself that perhaps it stemmed from his mother’s bloodline. But now? His mother couldn’t possibly have been some shapeshifting freak!
He lifted his head. The mirror reflected his bewildered expression. Questions only a philosophical madman would ponder had become stark reality for him:
Who am I? What am I?
Was he one of the monsters too? Was it some primal survival instinct flowing through his blood that had kept him silent before Little Qianning, hiding the truth from Faust? Or was it just the basic self-preservation any ordinary person would feel, unrelated to any monstrous heritage?
Backstage, the people crammed into half the room stared in stunned silence at the massive dark-red wings filling the space. They watched as the feathers, gleaming with the luxurious sheen of fine satin, began to fluff up, their quills bristling one by one with anger, confusion, irritation, and aggression.
In the next instant, the wings snapped shut and spun like a sleek, iron-black shuttlecraft, smashing precisely through the doorway!
“Rattle-rattle-rattle…”
The apparently delicate, beautiful feathers scraped the doorframe with a sound like a cleaver hacking into a cutting board. They sliced through whatever they grazed like the blades of a meat grinder, carving deep gashes.
The Yellow Robe Things were knocked back from backstage. Before they could regroup, Ode burst into the grand hall—prime territory for them to shine—and swept half his wingspan in a single motion!
The powerful wings whipped up a gale, ripping through the air with a howling screech.
The Yellow Robe Things, knowing physical attacks couldn’t harm them, didn’t even dodge. Yet in the next moment, they were caught in the brutal windstorm of those wings and hurled flying, slamming into the side walls before crashing to the floor.
“—”
More Yellow Robe Things unleashed shrill cries beyond human hearing, surging like a muddy yellow tide toward the dark-red figure striding into the hall.
“Bam!” Several ceiling lights shattered on impact.
“Crash—clang!” A cascade of suspended fixtures plummeted down.
【Uh—Ode?? What happened to the seduction plan?!】
Countless hands reached out toward the lone dark-red angel amid the yellow tide, pinning his struggling wings to the ground and swallowing his writhing form beneath muddy yellow robes.
Faust initially thought this was part of Ode’s seduction strategy, just like back at Qian Ning Mansion—sacrificing himself to lure the ghouls right to them. But the next second, wings reflecting blood-red satin light exploded outward. Five or six Yellow Robe Things smashed straight into the overhead stage lights, the fixtures snapping with a “clang!”
“It was just to trick the Major General into taking everyone and leaving,” Ode said as he rose, clamping his hand around a nearby Yellow Robe Thing’s neck and brutally smashing its head into another one’s skull. “Sorry, I’m not in the best mood right now.”
【…Yeah, we can tell.】
Faust didn’t intervene. In the current situation, knocking them all down and applying reverse pollution en masse was far more efficient than individual “loving hugs”—even if the scene looked a bit violent and bloody.
Halfway through, Faust even started recording. A fight this clean, efficient, and precise—no wasted movements, not even an extra inch of fist travel—was perfect teaching material for new recruits. Ode’s stone-faced takedown of the entire room might even inspire the rookies to hit training harder.
He watched with the cool eye of pure tactics. Not so for certain gods whose minds were anything but proper.
Nyarlathotep’s burning eyes didn’t blink, fixed in excitement on the red-haired youth hovering midair beneath the opera house’s majestic vaulted ceiling. Warm stage lights bathed him in a gorgeous rose-gold glow.
His thigh locked around an enemy’s neck, the sleek, toned lines of his leg muscles straining against his trousers. With a sudden burst of power, the Yellow Robe Thing let out a shriek and collapsed bonelessly.
Nyarlathotep subtly shifted, crossing his legs. “Have you ever tried letting your sister-in-law wrap those legs around you like that, brother?”
“…” He’d been strangled before, but around the waist, not the neck—and he hadn’t asked for it. Why waste time and breath on this chattering spare?
Cavendish irritably swiped his incessant blood kin straight off to the Egyptian deserts.
Meanwhile, atop the opera house.
If the surveillance cameras could peer into this shadowy dead corner, Faust would have been shocked to see the Sleep God—who was downstairs organizing the crowd’s evacuation—standing there as well.
Across from Hypnos floated a figure draped in tattered yellow robes, every motion exuding an uncanny elegance.
“I intend to get these people out safely.” The Sleep God was blunt. “I’ve made a promise. You know what that means for beings like us, Hastur—I won’t allow you to tarnish my face.”
The pale mask concealed Hastur’s features; even Its drifting robes gave no hint of displeasure. “This is my turf.”
“But I was in the hall before you claimed it. If we’re talking first come, first served, who’s really the provocateur here?”
The Sleep God emphasized again, “I will get these people out safely. If you want to stop me, drive me off yourself. Then we can settle during the clash who truly started this war.”
Hastur’s head tilted slightly toward Hypnos. “You don’t like that idea.”
“Correct. But sometimes you have to take risks for certain things, don’t you?” The Sleep God yawned lazily, his form fading. “Think about my proposal, Hastur. I was here first; you’re the latecomer. You’ve claimed this turf now, but let me take these humans and your provocation is erased…”
“The war, erased too.”
“Isn’t that a pretty good deal? After all, you need an audience with pulses—and actors—to enjoy the show.”
The night wind whispered through the safety stairs, leaving the passage quiet and empty once more.
But down below, the endless-seeming corridor suddenly came to an end. Hypnos glanced at the bench ahead, his smile turning genuine. “All right! We’re in the clear.”
“Whoa, whoa—not time to collapse yet. We still need to get back to backstage.”
“What?” The exhausted crowd slumped to the floor, legs aching. One bold soul couldn’t help protesting, “We just fled from there! Everyone saw those—those monsters charging in. Going back is either walking into the lion’s den or strolling with the corpses!”
The Sleep God pursed his lips. “No believers in God here? Maybe what you saw was Michael descending.”
“What are you talki—waaah!”
Several hundred people were scooped up by divine power like dumplings, ferried straight to the backstage rear entrance.
The Sleep God stood with one hand on his hip, kicking the back door open with a solid “thud” from his sturdy leg. Peering past the cluttered interior, they could see the hall clearly through the front doors:
Lamp fixtures and props lay smashed everywhere; row after row of seats half-destroyed.
Yet beneath the hall’s ornate horseshoe-arched ceiling, a figure descended slowly, broad wings beating with the velvety texture of black Baroque roses. Countless hands—halfway between monster and man—reached desperately toward him out of self-preservation, grasping those mighty, sacred feathers, the red-haired youth’s heaving chest, powerful arms, and that faintly bewildered yet eternally pure face.
Miracles unfolded at their touch. Yellow robes sloughed away; humanity returned.
“God…” Someone clutched their chest.
“…” Fresh from venting his emotions and basking in post-climax clarity, Ode shot an exasperated glance at his companion, who was seizing the moment to proselytize. “Everyone, into backstage! Where are those three Brotherhood members? We weren’t done talking.”
·
After all the chaos, the Brotherhood members were thoroughly deflated. When Ode questioned them again, they were far more cooperative:
“What’s Morgan like? Smart, ambitious, cunning… You have no idea what humans’ position was in the Brotherhood before he joined. Those—arrogant Kunyang—didn’t treat us as people at all. To them, we were just consumables. Morgan changed that. He schemed successful operations several times—”
“Let me guess: he gained a lot of sway in the Brotherhood because of it?” Ode cut straight to the point. “This operation—was it his idea?”
The brown-haired man held his breath for a moment, then slumped in defeat. “…Yes.”
【Got the remittance from the Secret Society, sparked this action on purpose, then bolted the moment you walked in… Who summoned Hastur? Case closed, nailed down solid.】
【I just checked some sorcerer tomes. There’s a ritual array for summoning the King in Yellow. Once completed, every soul dying within feeds straight to the King as payment for a brief manifestation.】
【That explains why the Yellow Sign Brotherhood—mostly Kunyang—sent only humans this time! Kunyang have telepathic senses; they saw through Morgan’s plan. Humans couldn’t.】
‘Weakness is the original sin!’
A resentful shriek whipped past Ode’s ear, stabbing sharp enough that he clutched it instinctively.
The Sleep God, who’d been floating nearby blowing bored raspberries, shot him a sharp look. “You okay?”
Ode shook his head and turned to the brown-haired man. “Let me guess: sealing off the whole opera house afterward? Morgan’s idea too?”
The brown-haired man nodded with effort. “We came here… to track a Mi-Go proxy. At least, that’s what Morgan told us.”
“He said that the Proxy holds intelligence of utmost importance to the Carcosans. As long as we seize it, the Carcosans will respect us, the deities will reward us, and even if we perish midway through the sacrifice, our deaths will change the world and etch our names into history.”
“…” Ode had always thought only politicians cared about having their names etched into history. “Have you found this Proxy yet?”
The brotherhoods all shook their heads in silence, the realization that their own leader viewed them as sacrificial lambs landing a heavy blow upon them.
【If we can confirm that today’s farce was Morgan’s handiwork—and that Morgan is entangled with the Secret Society—then I think I know why you found the audience so surprisingly reasonable today.】
【Consider how they respond to prime ministerial policies they dislike: they hire the Black Brotherhood to send threat letters to the Prime Minister or even assassinate him.】
【Given a chance to pin all the blame on the Yellow Sign Brotherhood, do you think they’d pass it up? I’m afraid this entire Opera House is now crawling with the Secret Society’s political enemies—or business rivals.】
Ode frowned. “But Morgan didn’t manage to escape the theater successfully. And you said the ritual array he set up could only summon Hastur ‘briefly,’ yet It remains entrenched in the Opera House—”
He didn’t even finish uttering the word “yet” before the impatient Sleep God tensed his core and leaped from the cloud bed like a leopard rousing from slumber. In one fluid motion, he seized Ode and hauled him into the backstage storeroom.
“I’ve waited long enough. How much longer do you plan to quibble over irrelevant backstory with these little fools?” The Sleep God stretched his limbs, every inch of muscle rippling with explosive power and vibrant life force. “My take? We go straight at Hastur. What’s yours?”
“…” Ode found himself momentarily cowed by the Sleep God’s aggressive style and instinctively leaned back. “How, exactly? Hastur hasn’t revealed Its true form yet. I need a physical body to drag It into the Dream Realm, don’t I?”
“This isn’t like before in the South Pacific. Without Jack to extract people, I can’t just swallow the entire Opera House into the Dream Realm. What about the hostages? They’d get caught in the crossfire! Last time, if Jack hadn’t been quick, El would’ve been done for—”
“Then lure It into manifesting Its true form.” The Sleep God clamped a hand on Ode’s shoulder. “No one else has that power—not even me. I can only coax out Its phantom image. But you? You can do it.”
“That moment backstage when you unfurled those little wings of yours, Hastur visibly wavered. It’s weak for that sort of thing. And It wants to watch the opera—why not ask the playwright if there’s a role suited to you? Take the stage, catch Its eye, let It drag you off backstage… Well, backstage is too crowded now, so It hauls you to some other room for a bit of lordling-and-ingénue intimacy…”
“Perfect setup for an assassination, wouldn’t you say? I’ll stick close and strike alongside you. No room for accidents.”
“…” Ode ventured cautiously, “I thought you lot didn’t want to get personally involved—for fear of sparking a war between gods?”
“I don’t care.” The Sleep God fixed Ode with an unblinking stare. “So, in or out?”
Two and a half hours later.
Exhausted from terror and overexertion, the vast majority of guests had succumbed to fatigue, slumping against walls or collapsing where they stood to fall into deep slumber. Only the handpicked actors still clustered around the playwright.
“I can’t do it—you ever heard me sing ‘Happy Birthday’? Sounds like a train wreck!”
“Easy, easy… I can cut your singing parts altogether or have the other actors dub for you from offstage.”
“And the male lead? Admit it, he’s a beast in a fight, but this is a performance, not play-acting—”
“Oh, put your mind at ease.” The Sleep God clapped a confident hand on Ode’s shoulder as the redhead pored over the script with his head bowed. “This one’s got the chops to transform into a mermaid. When it comes to singing, no human can hold a candle to siren mermaids.”
“Orpheus?” Ode didn’t look up. “The one who bested siren mermaids with a lyre?”
The Sleep God: “…That’s just a human bedtime story—not real. Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”
“To the bathroom.” Ode shot the Sleep God a look of exasperation, set the script aside, and rose to his feet. “You want to tag along for that too?”
Stumped into silence, the Sleep God watched as Ode shrugged and turned to leave the backstage area.
The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Ode’s poised demeanor crumbled. An maddening itch prickled across his skin. He rubbed vigorously at his right arm, the shirt fabric scraping harshly against his back, but the itch burrowed deeper still, eluding his efforts. Restraining the urge to claw at it right there, he strode down the passageway. A quick glance confirmed no one—and no yellow robe things—in sight before he darted into the Lyceum Theatre beneath the main auditorium.
The space was a performance hall about a fifth the size of the main theater, but ample enough to accommodate his wings.
Ignoring any light switches, Ode slammed the door shut and tore at his tie and vest, fumbling open the buttons of his shirt. He hadn’t even tugged the garments down before his wings erupted from his back in an uncontrollable burst!
Whoosh…
In the pitch darkness, the broad wings stirred a gust of wind.
Not a single lamp illuminated the hall, yet the wings’ surfaces gleamed with the iridescent shimmer of pulverized rubies, casting an eerie, trembling glow as they slowly spread and drooped.
“…” Ode let out a deep, comfortable, wordless sigh of relief. Only after a long moment did he reach back, yank down the clothes his wings had shoved upward, and seek out a wider expanse of floor. He sat and cradled one wing in his arms, fingers probing toward the roots where the itch had every feather shaft bristling and quivering relentlessly.
The crimson scale-glow lit up the young man’s body cradled within the wings’ embrace. Lean yet fluid muscles stood in sharp relief beneath the roseate light and shadow, his slightly arched waist flat and taut without a trace of excess, his chest flushed with a rouge-like blush.
‘mgep hafh?’ A heartbeat-like thrum suddenly echoed in his ear.
Ode froze mid-motion. “It’s not time for the performance yet.”
From the darkness, seven or eight icy hooks delved simultaneously into the depths of his wings, probing straight to the roots hidden beneath the softest down. The wings quivered faintly under the assault. “Just helping you pinch the feather tubes. Ever done it yourself?”
Tentacles coiled around his waist, brushing his chest with feathery touches that made it hard for Ode not to read deeper implications into the intruder’s final words. “Pinch feather tubes? No. I’d already grown up before these things sprouted… Ah…!”
The itch at the roots shattered all at once. From the ruptured tubes sprang fuller, tougher feathers, bursting free.
The red-haired youth pitched forward in exhaustion, only for the tentacles to sweep him up and draw him into a cold, void-like embrace. Even as his skin pressed against the muddy yellow tatters of the yellow robe, Ode could sense no true form beneath—no body at all, perhaps. Only the rigid hooks embedded in his wings registered with stark clarity.
“You wanted to see me, didn’t you?” The tentacles twisted around the red-haired youth’s neck, tilting his chin upward. “This is your scheme. You plan to strike alongside Hypnos… but have you ever considered that Hypnos might not be trustworthy?”
“…” Ode’s eyelashes fluttered.
“Why do I linger here? To watch the play. What good does it do me to render the entire audience mindless and oblivious? It only hampers the rehearsal, ruins the viewing experience.”
“Tell me.” Something soft and cool grazed Ode’s lips in the darkness, then trailed down his spine. “If I’m not the one turning the audience into yellow robes, then who is? Who would want to? And for what purpose?”
“Has Hypnos pressed you to come assassinate me? Promised to aid you from the sidelines?”
“…” Ode’s body tensed involuntarily, his heartbeat quickening to a frantic, pounding rhythm.
The realization made that instant all the more agonizing for him. Yet the entity cradling him, seizing on the moment when Ode’s waist clenched and a muffled grunt escaped his lips, turned his face toward the surrounding gloom and murmured into his ear: “Look around. Do you see Him anywhere?”
“He’s lying to you. He’s sent you here to die.”
“What makes any of you think the Elder Gods are any different from our kind? That They view you as equals? That They bow to your customs and rules?”
“If no one’s ever told you the truth before, then allow me—in the eyes of the Elder Gods, you are no different from the humans as seen by the Carcosans… merely expendable fodder.”
“Power, the divine path—they’re all roads paved with bleached bones.”
Across the street, finally extricated from the desert and rushing back to London, Nyarlathotep halted at the round table. His eyes locked unblinkingly on the Opera House.
He could almost share in the thrill of conquest and destruction that Hastur savored at this very moment. Even fresh from being cast aside by His blood kin for excessive prattle, He couldn’t resist licking His parched lower lip. His gaze drifted slowly from the red-haired youth’s taut form in the darkness to that face—pupils slightly dilated, expression faintly dazed.
“You know, I’ve always thought the expressions on Sister-in-Law’s face were the most beautiful thing about him. But I’ve never seen him in despair… Don’t you find his look right now utterly exquisite?”
“Realizing one’s own insignificance. Knowing that in truth, you’re utterly alone. Dreading that no matter how you struggle, you can’t escape the crushing wheel of fate.”
“Just like us.”
