Chapter 14

Ode stared fixedly at Cavendish for a few seconds before suddenly bursting into laughter. He withdrew his hand and lightly patted Cavendish’s cheek in a teasing manner. “Wake up, baby. The sun’s shining on your ass.”

Want to kill him? In his dreams. Ode straightened up and settled back into the red velvet armchair with a relaxed air. “Come on in. And take off your coat for me while you’re at it.”

“?” It was only after Ode pulled his hand back that Cavendish noticed the marks on his shoulder. He shifted his gaze away from it. “Why do you think I’d cooperate?”

Ode propped up his cheek with one hand, tapping the armrest lightly with the other. “Do you still want to stick around by my side?”

“…”

After several seconds of tense silence, Cavendish met Ode’s smiling gaze. With a flick of his long legs, he stepped right over the low windowsill.

His broad back blocked most of the light streaming in from the window. He let his hand drop, his slender fingers deftly unbuttoning his suit jacket. “How did you deal with The Colour Out of Space? Have you figured out what it is?”

Ode shrugged, his pragmatic mindset on full display. “Why should I care? It’s been dealt with completely. It won’t pose a threat anymore.”

“…” Cavendish paused in the middle of loosening his collar. “You didn’t observe its properties during the fight? Figure out its weaknesses?”

“I’m not planning on teaching a class at GORCC. In a situation like that, winning was enough. What, you want me to run a research seminar?” Ode slouched sideways lazily, reaching out to grab Cavendish’s shirttail. He yanked the man closer and stood up.

He placed his hand on Cavendish’s collar and pulled it open to either side—

It didn’t budge.

Ode arched an eyebrow. “What’s the matter now, my dear Pea Prince?”

“What?” Cavendish frowned slightly at the nickname and glanced down. Ode couldn’t help noticing how Cavendish seemed to genuinely view him as something tiny and insignificant. The man even mouthed something silently—probably “barbarian.”

“…” A person could count themselves lucky just to survive. Did they really expect him to collect data mid-battle to avoid being called barbaric? What a hassle. No wonder he was so spoiled.

Ode slapped away Cavendish’s unhelpful hand, which was clutching the collar and getting in the way. Methodically, he removed the suit jacket from Cavendish’s shoulders and draped it over his own. “The ones who took Lola were probably from the Secret Cult. I was planning—”

Cavendish grabbed his sleeve from behind with firm determination.

“…” Ode let out a breath, already growing accustomed to Cavendish’s little protests whenever he didn’t get his way. Calmly, he asked, “Got some brilliant insight to share?”

“Oh! I almost forgot—you’re quite the scholar, with all that knowledge about heretics like the Children of the Dust and Quachil Uttaus. Surely you have some specialized tidbits about those flaming pebbles to share with me? I’m all ears.”

“The Colour Out of Space isn’t stones. They’re energy-based lifeforms from beyond Earth. Those multicolored flames are just how they appear, but if what you caught was something pebble-like? That’s an immature one, still encased in its eggshell.”

Cavendish wasn’t the sort to miss sarcasm—he simply cared too much about factual accuracy.

“When a cluster of juvenile Colours Out of Space arrives in an area, carried inside meteor-like eggshells, they first corrupt and warp the surrounding environment. Only once it’s fully adapted for their feeding do the shells melt away, allowing the juveniles to hatch and drain all life from the vicinity.”

“They’re not fire—it’s their energy form. And those corpses weren’t burned. They were completely drained of life, turning brittle and ashen until they crumbled to dust.”

Ode wrenched his sleeve free from Cavendish’s grip and buttoned up his shirt without ceremony. “And knowing all this benefits me how? Go back in time and fight The Colour Out of Space again?”

The only useful bit was that The Colour Out of Space had likely crashed into Dreamcatcher Town like a meteor by accident, rather than being planted there by some faction in the dense woods.

Cavendish wasn’t half-lying, either. Ode recalled the Lady in Black Fur Coat mentioning that her husband had entered the woods to “mine ore”—probably to deal with the Colours.

The Soap Company couldn’t be involved, or they’d be camped out by them constantly instead of snapping photos around town.

As for the Children of the Dust… that was trickier. He still hadn’t figured out why Quachil Uttaus had summoned that cult here.

Ode glanced pointedly at Cavendish. “Speaking of which—back at the inn, you turned three rooms to ruins in the blink of an eye. You wouldn’t happen to be one of the Children of the Dust—”

Cavendish’s eyes slowly widened. Ode had never seen even a twitch from him during that “accidental” fall from the building—his expression had always stayed cool and detached.

But Ode didn’t finish his question.

Crash!

The interview room door flew open, and a towering figure—nearly scraping the ceiling—stooped to enter.

The manager fawned eagerly. “The interviewer’s here! You—huh? Who’s this?”

Ode glanced sideways at Cavendish, ready to spin some lie, when the unmistakably pure-blooded interviewer let out a furious roar. “You!! You’re the one who killed my kin!!”

Thud!

The still-confused manager was kicked flying out of the room. The next instant, the door slammed shut behind the interviewer.

Cavendish immediately stepped back, as if yielding the stage. Ode reflexively reached for the gun at his back, but before he could draw, a mountain of flesh weighing hundreds of pounds barreled toward him with a thunderous bellow. “I’ll rip your head off… filthy human!”

Time seemed to stretch in that moment. Ode’s body toppled backward under the impact, his right hand gripping the gun’s handle—only to release it as his mind raced.

He couldn’t fire here.

Blending in via the interview was the simplest way into the Deep One Outpost. Shooting now would mean all-out war.

Boom!

The massive bulk crashed down, shaking the chandelier overhead. Ode grunted, feeling several ribs crack. But with his enhanced healing from those two recent meals, they began knitting back together.

As long as he didn’t die, he could ignore it. Before the interviewer could open its reeking maw, Ode raised his hand and cupped the creature’s flared neck gills, swollen with rage. “Do you really want to do this?”

“Of course…” The interviewer’s roar cut off midway. Its bulging fish eyes reflected the human beneath it: thick, blood-red lashes that trembled faintly, revealing deep, bewitchingly verdant eyes whose sultry glow wandered in the shadows, shattering the face’s original pure innocence into fragile shards.

The interviewer’s breathing grew ragged. Ode frantically psyched himself up, hypnotizing himself that no pain, no gain—but this wolf was ugly as sin. Then it shuddered all over and declared, “Perfect… I’ve found the most perfect groom!”

“?” Ode was still processing the “perfect groom” bit when the interviewer lurched to its feet, repeating hysterically, “Perfect, too perfect… Praise Father God! I’ve found someone sure to please You! Get up—can you stand? I need to take you to the island right now!”

Half an hour later, on the small offshore island south of town.

Night had fully enveloped Dreamcatcher Town. Ode dragged the feebly independent Cavendish along as they followed the interviewer through the Deep One Outpost, built like a colossal dam for giants.

The outpost was carved into the island’s rocky mountain, spiraling downward nearly ten levels of tightly packed cave cells like prison blocks.

From the top layer, the drop looked endless—far more than a few thousand meters. Even with Ode’s improved eyesight, he couldn’t make out the bottom.

“You won’t be staying up here,” the interviewer said mildly to Ode, treating Cavendish like he didn’t exist—whether from his silence and low presence, or some instinctual aversion. “Only impure-blooded Deep Ones live in the fortress’s upper levels. They handle guarding and frontline combat. Your quarters for tonight are at the very bottom—I’m lending you my private residence until… the most important moment arrives.”

“My kin’s blood…” Grotesque heads poked from passing caves. The lesser Deep Ones glared at Ode with hatred but held back due to the interviewer.

Ode’s heart pounded wildly inside, though his face remained utterly composed. He even had the leisure to flick provocative, tempting glances at the Deep Ones along the way—the real goal being to scan their rooms for any sign of Lola.

He didn’t want to see such a sight, but survival offered hope where death did not.

One room… two rooms… Ode never spotted Lola and breathed a quiet sigh of relief—only to grow even more anxious.

Had the Little Girl already died? Or was his guess wrong, and Lola wasn’t in the Deep One Outpost at all?

The ever-shadow-like Cavendish at his side suddenly twitched his wrist faintly and whispered, “Look over there. I smell corpses…”

“?” Ode followed Cavendish’s indication and spotted—half in fury, half in relief—three caves on the third level’s east side. Unlike the others, they held no Deep Ones. Instead, they imprisoned barely breathing humans.

Lola appeared to be one of the few females among the sacrifices. Her small, emaciated form slumped against the iron bars of one cell, seemingly fainted from starvation.

Ode’s heart thudded heavily, then eased with profound relief.

After all this time… all these twists, he’d finally found Lola herself—and she was alive! God, he almost wanted to praise the heavens.

Ode schooled his lips into nonchalance. “Those three cells over there—why’s one empty?”

Still under the charm’s sway, the interviewer answered without thinking. “Not empty. It holds the corpses of those Children of the Dust and Church of Kolon Sovereign pests who came to steal our territory.”

“?” Ode latched onto the new term. “Church of Kolon Sovereign? What’s that? The Children of the Dust came to Dreamcatcher Town to fight you for turf?”

“Oh… little pretty.” The interviewer turned, its grayish face softening with affection—nearly making Ode flinch away. “You really know nothing, do you?”

“The Church of Kolon Sovereign is the cult that worships Yog-Sothoth. They have a powerful deity—but what good is that? Their god doesn’t protect them, and they’re so weak…”

“Remember those folks always wandering town with cameras around their necks? They’re from that church.”

“…”

Ode controlled the expression on his face. Although the interviewer standing before him wouldn’t notice his subtle look, and Cavendish couldn’t see it anyway.

“Yog-Sothoth”? Wasn’t that the first word on the paper he’d found on that unlucky photographer in the dense forest? He had assumed the term meant something else entirely. It turned out to be the name of a deity?

Ode’s mind raced. Even if the Deep Ones had gods of their own, the interviewer had still acknowledged that “they had a powerful deity.” Could he infer, then, that Yog-Sothoth’s power might surpass even the malevolent gods the Deep Ones worshipped?

That would explain why all the photographs had crumbled to fragments under the assault of the Colour Out of Space, while that thin, unremarkable scrap of paper had emerged unscathed.

Ode thoughtfully touched the paper hidden against his chest, his face remaining impassive as he pressed on. “What are they doing in Dreamcatcher Town? What business do the Children of the Dust have here? What’s so special about this town that it’s worth so many factions fighting over it?”

“They aren’t fighting over it, exactly. When I said ‘steal our territory,’ what I meant was—Dreamcatcher Town is now the Deep Ones’ turf. Any outsiders setting foot on our territory are enemies that need to be rooted out.”

They had finally reached the lowest level. The interviewer halted at the mouth of a neatly chiseled, perfectly square cavern. “To be honest, I can’t for the life of me figure out what the Church of Kolon Sovereign wants here… They come equipped with cameras. It feels less like they’re here to do something and more like they want to bear witness to it.”

“And the Children of the Dust? That’s even stranger. They went to all the trouble of coming to Dreamcatcher Town, only to spend their days holed up in the dense forest, obsessing over ways to leave. Are they that bored with life?”

“Oh! And those corpses of the Children of the Dust in the cells. Did you notice? They’re shriveled up like mummies—but their spines aren’t twisted. That means they didn’t die from Quachil Uttaus’s malicious blessing. No, it was because the god they worshipped, Quachil Uttaus itself, once resided within their bodies…”

The Deep Ones came across as arrogant, but they clearly kept a sharp eye on potential threats, staying ever watchful. Ode had been mulling over these very questions himself, and the interviewer must have pondered them plenty too—otherwise, he wouldn’t have rattled off such a thorough explanation at the drop of a hat.

Ode wanted to probe further, but the interviewer grew excited once more. He shoved Ode into the room, his hands trembling as he clenched them into fists and took a step back. “Get some rest, dear. After tonight, you might be too busy to even catch your breath.”

Clang!

The instant Cavendish stumbled into the room after Ode, the interviewer slammed the heavy black stone door—crafted from onyx—shut behind them.

Ode had no time to puzzle over that ominous line about being too busy to breathe after tonight. Still thrumming with excitement, he paced a circle in the pitch-black, sealed chamber. “Perfect. Even better than I’d hoped!”

“Now we just need to wait until nightfall—when the Deep Ones guards slacken off—rescue the hostages, and then we’re golden… What are you doing?”

Ode turned his head in disbelief. There was Cavendish—who clearly couldn’t care less about human lives—lighting a candle. Its flame revealed a stone chamber hewn like a luxury hotel suite, perhaps even more lavish, with opulent furnishings. “Looking for a place to bathe.”

The self-proclaimed blind and fragile man had abandoned his cane. His gleaming Oxford leather boots sank into the soft gray-black furs carpeting the floor—skinned from some unfortunate beast—as he strode straight into the bathroom. “Don’t mind me. You do your scheming; I’ll take my bath—”

Cavendish froze.

After a beat, he tilted his head slightly. His misty eyes swept over Ode, who was crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with him in the bathroom doorway, their chests pressed together. “…If you want to go first that badly, I can wait.”

“Spare a thought for poor me,” Ode said carelessly, straightening the collar of Cavendish’s vest with utter insincerity. “I lost you once back in the forest. It nearly had me in tears. How could I risk letting you out of my sight again?”

Cavendish paused. “I’m about to bathe.”

Ode arched a brow at him, his fingers deftly flicking open the buttons of his suit jacket. “Then you won’t mind some company.”