Chapter 21

What color was death? For Ode, it was the color of flames.

He stumbled through the inferno, desperate to reach the far shore of the Corpse Sea. But hands always clutched at his ankles and calves, while ghostly figures from his past pointed back the way he had come.

“Go back.”

“Did you win, Ode? If not, why are you heading that way?”

“It’s fine… It’s just Quachil Uttaus. Even if It infuses you with the power of decay and death, how many times have you already died? And haven’t you always returned to the world of the living? We’ll always be here… to wake you, to send you back. Death is the last thing you need to fear.”

What color was death?

For Quachil Uttaus, it was the color of Ode.

In a shattering horror that rent Its mind asunder, It watched that frail, insignificant human open his eyes once more amid the dust storm laced with decay.

Those eerily vivid green eyes brimmed with pure madness and feral savagery. In the blink of an eye, propelled by the Gatling gun’s recoil, he flashed into view right before It.

The last thing It remembered was the gleam of stark white teeth snapping toward It.

“Buzz—”

A guttural wail of agony erupted from Black Mountain, its stomach pierced through. The sound rumbled dully through the walls of flesh into Ode’s ears.

The next instant came a “splash—”

In its torment and rage, the black mud monster mimicked what Ode had done earlier. It reared up a massive claw and plunged it deep into its own abdomen, ripping out the source of its pain along with chunks of innards.

Amid the splattering gray slime flew a pair of glowing eyes like fireflies. Their owner had a severed black, withered limb clamped in its jaws. Through the churning blood clouding the seawater, that gaze locked unblinkingly onto Black Mountain—like a starving beast still chewing its prize while already fixating on the next.

As power and warmth flowed back into him with the food sliding down his throat, Ode paid no mind to the skin on his body rapidly regaining its plump smoothness. The moment Black Mountain lunged at him with a roar of shock and fury, he hoisted his Gatling gun.

“Bang bang bang…”

The muffled, staccato bursts echoed dully underwater. Bullets forged from condensed life force tore into the writhing, sentient flesh of Black Mountain, ripping a gaping wound straight through its gray, slimy body in an instant.

But the next second, tendrils snaked out from the slime. They swiftly entwined and merged with those on the opposite side, and the puncture wound vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

—Bullets won’t work. Ode’s eyes didn’t so much as flicker as he judged in that split second. What about devouring it?

His heart quivered in cowardly dread, as if pleading softly: Don’t eat that thing again. Even if it meant dying once more, he wanted to go as a human, not some twisted monstrosity.

Yet Ode’s body faced no resistance from his sentiments. Without hesitation, he jammed the Gatling gun straight into the churning gray slime and sank his teeth into the revolting mass.

“Buzz…”

Amid Black Mountain’s furious roar, dozens of tendrils lanced out from the gray slime, mercilessly skewering Ode’s chest and gut.

But that pain only gave Ode—a mind honed to razor sharpness—a momentary pause before his thoughts raced onward:

No good. Even after gnawing at it, the monster would heal.

Worse still, goaded by the repeated wounds, the black mud monster flew into a complete frenzy. Its nearly hundred-meter maw gaped wide, unleashing a roar beyond human ears. Then its bloated, ball-like body slumped downward in a puddle. The gray slime writhed in frenzy, spreading visibly in all directions across the seafloor.

—What about inhaling it like a whale?

No, that wouldn’t work. He could suck in at most five hundred cubic meters of water per second. Even Dagon had struggled free of that; no chance against the black mud monster sprawling over the entire seabed.

Was there no way at all, then?

…No, there was still one.

As Ode yanked the tendril from his chest, he noticed his hand trembling faintly. The wound where Quachil Uttaus had lodged in his gut had already healed after expelling the foreign matter.

A chill seeped into his limbs—not from his body, but from fear.

He was afraid to face death again… How laughable. Just half an hour ago, he had craved release, furious at being roused from sleep. Now he was reluctant to let go of the living world?

‘Seek help from Cavendish,’ a timid inner voice pleaded. ‘Isn’t that the simplest, quickest way? Why stubbornly refuse? He seems to care about you so much. He’d surely help…’

‘Doesn’t death hurt? Body pierced, flesh rotting… Why should you endure that alone? Aren’t you just some unlucky schmuck? Missed work… lost family… homeless… You can’t even save yourself, let alone retrieve Grandfather’s body. And you think you can save others?!’

—Yes.

Ode closed his eyes briefly. I’m so powerless. I can’t even save myself.

So how could he pass up the chance when the button to end it all lay right there, fully within his grasp? Why should he give up? What right did he have to?

What right did he have to beg aid from a god? To bow his head?!

Why hand his fate to the divine and grovel, hoping for scraps of mercy?!

Deep beneath the sea, Ode abruptly raised his right hand, etched with the Alchemy Array, and unleashed it once more upon the black mud monster blanketing the seabed. A low growl rumbled from his chest.

Time froze. The life force Quachil Uttaus had restored surged out of him in a torrent. Yet even as exhaustion claimed him, Ode slung the Gatling gun half over his shoulder and cranked the handle with savage resolve, aiming straight at the seafloor.

The blazing torrent of vitality—fierce and wrathful—poured out in an instant, engulfing the deep sea in a roar like the sun itself ablaze.

On the shore, a brilliant white flash reflected in Cavendish’s misty eyes. It was as if a star had burned through its fuel at the end of life, plummeting into the depths. After a silent implosion, it erupted with cataclysmic force!

His pupils contracted at the unforeseen sight. Then realization hit: Wait. What had Ode done?!

No time for waiting now. Cavendish yanked off his tie with rough urgency, shed his suit jacket, and plunged into the depths.

Just minutes ago, he had been joking with Ode about the Little Poison Snake Prince! Well, the snake hadn’t… Fine, he had shown Ode how to use the Gatling gun simply. But he hadn’t meant for the man to charge off to his death with it!

In that moment, Cavendish suddenly understood the long list of deaths on the Time-Reversal Clock. This guy’s self-destructive streak was insane! Damn it all!

Deep in the seawater.

Ode’s body drifted down slowly, drained of strength. The seafloor below gleamed clean, utterly devoid of gray sludge.

His back struck the bare rock, and in his daze, a disgruntled mutter rolled from Ode’s throat. The last time he had lain on the seabed, soft coral had cushioned him. Why was it so damn hard now? Couldn’t they show a little respect to a warrior fresh from the battlefield?

A blur of swirling lights spun before his eyes. Finally, a soft “pop” sounded, freezing the scene on the surgical light beaming down at him.

“Stop squirming, will you?” Lola’s voice rang out nearby, more mature now and laced with fretful impatience. “It’s not like we’re harvesting your kidney to sell… What? The table’s too hard? Deal with it! You think we’re gonna fit a mattress in here?”

The glint of surgical tools flashed by his right hand as the staff made their final checks.

A needle full of anesthetic pierced his skin. Lola’s head—aged by five or six years, at least—swung into view, blocking the harsh light.

“One last recap of this surgery’s purpose—I mean, what it’ll achieve if it succeeds.”

“Using tissue from Quachil Uttaus as the main material, supplemented by bits from other Great Old Ones, Outer Gods, and… unclassified species, we’ll extract and remake your spine.”

“You can think of this operation as slicing,” Lola said. She seemed to decide words weren’t cutting it and waved her palm in front of Ode’s face. “See, before surgery, to us, you’re a full three-dimensional person. We see you from any angle.”

“But after this slice, your existence—for certain… Outer Gods—will be reduced to a single thin cross-section.” She turned her palm edge-on toward him. “Like this, but way thinner.”

“It’ll make you, in a sense, a special entity They can’t perceive.”

“You know how Outer Gods don’t observe the world like human vision. I stand in front of you; you only see the part facing you right now. But They see all sides at once—even past and future.”

“Wait,” the him on the table said. “Even by that logic—wouldn’t only an Outer God directly in front of me fail to see me? Just shift the angle and—”

“Exactly,” came a voice both unfamiliar and vaguely recognizable. Ode took a moment to place it: the grand tone that had warned him back at the Deep One Outpost. “But luckily, the only Outer God you need to evade is Yog-Sothoth—”

“They command time and space, knowing all past, present, and future—even the birth and death of Elder Gods like us. They’re the sole threat we must counter in advance. You can’t fight an omniscient foe.”

The bearer of that grand voice approached the table. Through his anesthesia-blurred vision, the him on the table made out a tall figure in white robes, shrouded in pale purple light:

“So we only need to ensure you’re ‘unobservable’ to Yog-Sothoth. My companion and I will handle that during the surgery.”

“…Then doesn’t They know about this conversation right now?” the him on the table pressed, suspicion heavy in his tone.

The white-robed Elder God shook their head. “Do you think we’d perform a surgery like this without prior tests? The space we’re in now is an isolated pocket carved out that way. But the test materials were limited, so it’ll collapse soon.”

“There’s no need to overcomplicate the explanation. You can think of it this way: after the surgery, you’ll exist in a space that Yog-Sothoth can’t observe or touch… And there’s another benefit to this procedure—”

“It was created specifically to counter Yog-Sothoth, so its effects will follow you through any time or space.”

“Yog-Sothoth won’t be a threat to our plan anymore. Instead, you’ll become the blade—a blade forged to strike at Yog-Sothoth.”

The tall figure wrapped in a white robe, shrouded in a veil of pale purple light, gently patted Lola’s shoulder. “Praise this little girl. Without her, this surgery couldn’t have been successfully developed. Her wisdom, and Eva’s, stands shoulder to shoulder with the divine.”

The white-robed figure nodded and thoughtfully stepped aside, giving Lola— who clearly had more to say—some private space.

“Ode,” Lola murmured, leaning against Ode’s chest like a child nestling in her parents’ arms. “This surgery… it might hurt more than any wound you’ve ever endured. I can’t even guarantee you’ll walk away from this hard operating table alive. So…”

“You’re not telling me to jump off the bed and run right now, are you?” Ode quipped from the operating table, poking fun at himself.

“…You have no idea how much I wish you’d do just that, but I know you won’t. So.” Lola lifted her head slightly. The surgical light gleamed behind her tousled hair like a cold yet blazing sun. “What I want to say is… thank you.”

“Thank you for saving my life in Dreamcatcher Town. Thank you for bringing me to 1980…”

The lights overhead suddenly blurred, like a winter windowpane frosted over.

Ode heard Lola’s voice echoing softly:

“Thank you… for bringing me to the future.”

“Ode, Ode… wake up. You can’t close your eyes now.”

“Ode… please, take me to 1980.”

“—Gah!” Ode jolted awake like a drowning man breaking the surface. He retched up seawater mixed with blood clots and struggled to sit up, but a sturdy arm locked firmly around his waist, holding him steady.

He looked up to see Cavendish frowning, his pale face etched with barely contained anger. Ode was cradled in the man’s arms.

Cavendish held up his arm, a fresh cut across his wrist. Golden blood shimmering with inner light seeped slowly from the fissure, which he pressed toward Ode’s lips.

“…” Ode turned his head away. Then he grabbed Cavendish’s wrist with a mocking grin. “Not dead yet, and you’re already trying to poison me?”

Cavendish’s expression was anything but friendly, but Ode felt no fear. Round after round of death had probably eroded whatever primal awe he once held for it.

He just wanted to laugh. That memory from the operating table had filled in the last missing link in his suspicions, pinning Cavendish’s identity squarely on “Yog-Sothoth.” Now, looking back on their earlier tussles…

“What are you laughing at?” Cavendish was gritting his teeth again.

Ode pried Cavendish’s wrist away. He’d been half-mad earlier, but now he wouldn’t dare consume Yog-Sothoth’s blood and flesh so casually. Was that the same as devouring a weakened Quachil Uttaus or whatever that black mud monster was whose identity he still couldn’t recall? He’d cease to be human on the spot. “Nothing,” he said, half-soothing, half-dismissing. “Just that the sun behind your head looks perfectly round. Move back a bit—don’t block my view of the sky.”

Ode pressed his hand to Cavendish’s chest, pushing him back slightly so the scorching sunlight—intoxicating down to his bones—bathed his body.

The sky was a clear, vibrant blue… until, at some point, a faint “crack” split the flawless azure, tearing open a rift.

The next moment, the fierce storm from 1980 poured through the breach. It crashed unstoppable into Dreamcatcher Town, which had lingered too long in 1888, washing the blood and grime from Ode’s body bit by bit.

Ode closed his eyes in the familiar rain, savoring it. Moments later, he reached up and yanked Cavendish’s loose shirt collar, pulling the man down.

Sea-blue and deep-green eyes met. Raindrops trailed down Cavendish’s sodden silver hair and onto his cheek.

Ode grinned playfully. “I told you to watch. Did you? Am I pretty?”

“…” Cavendish’s jaw clenched for an instant.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned in closer, ignoring the gathering crowd amid the downpour. “Pretty. ‘Pretty’ to death.” He was practically gnashing his teeth. “So pretty I want you right now, right here, in front of everyone.”

Ode chuckled indifferently, lazily releasing his grip and settling back into Cavendish’s arms. “Then go ahead and think about it.”

“Ode! Ode!!” The Little Girl’s voice, sharpened by anxiety, approached from afar.

Lola dragged a struggling Dr. Reid through the crowd. As soon as they broke through, she caught sight of Cavendish—usually the one left fuming by Ode’s dead-pig-not-afraid-of-boiling-water shamelessness—now equally infuriated by Ode’s roguish attitude. Cavendish pinched Ode’s chin and kissed him roughly, heedless of onlookers.

“Ah… th-this…” The 1888 townsfolk were stunned. God knew attitudes toward same-sex lovers in Britain back then meant the gallows.

“What a downpour…”

“Yeah… how’d it start raining out of nowhere?”

The simple townsfolk all tilted their heads to the sky, pondering the strange weather.

The Little Girl stood frozen for a few seconds before erupting in fury. She screamed and charged forward. “Kissing, kissing, what the hell!! You’re still bleeding!!”

Ode grabbed the little girl’s hand before Cavendish could take out his anger on her. “No need to fuss. This wound closed up before the stitches were even finished. It’s nothing… Hey, don’t cry. Why are you crying? Look at the rain… What did I say before? Outside the dream, it’s 1980. You can go take those medical classes now! Happy or not?”

“Happy… No! Not happy at all!!” The little girl sobbed, jumping mad. “You!! Why don’t you cherish your life at all?! I—hiss!”

Lola felt a sudden stab at her neck, like a blood pack bursting. She reflexively clapped her hand over it, only to touch something horrifyingly soft and slimy that wriggled against her palm.

“…?!” Ode’s playful expression vanished. Propping himself on Cavendish’s thigh, he sat up. “Don’t cover it! Let me see.”

Lola gasped raggedly. In this single day, she’d lived through more highs and lows than a lifetime. Trembling, she slowly uncovered her neck, terrified of what had grown there. “Did… did I turn into a monster?”

The crowd, which had just begun to relax with the crisis seemingly over, fell deathly silent.

Under countless eyes filled with fear and reliance, Ode stated calmly with utter certainty—even if he had none himself: “You didn’t. A professional will handle this. What are you scared of? How long were you even in contact with the monster? This is nothing. I didn’t turn.”

The sheriff reacted first. “The station! The police station has a phone. How do we contact that professional you mentioned? Can we call?”

Ode opened his mouth, but Cavendish’s hand on his waist slid forward slowly. Cavendish rested his chin on Ode’s shoulder and drawled, “Afraid not. How’s a 1888 telephone supposed to dial a 1980 mobile?”

With a flourish like a stage magician, Cavendish drew a phone from his sleeve with one hand and dangled it teasingly in front of Ode. “But this can.”

…Somehow, pulling a 1980 phone from someone met in 1888 felt utterly unsurprising.

Ode said, “…Give it to me.”

“No can do.” Cavendish deftly pulled his hand away, leaning close to Ode’s ear. His breath flicked lightly against it like a serpent’s tongue. “The snake you raised is very unhappy right now. You need to… hmm, let me think… order it some ‘no rush’ service.”

Meeting the Little Girl’s clear, panicked gaze, Ode cleared his throat and elbowed Cavendish back. “Order whatever—you gonna give it to me?”

“You know the number?” Cavendish suddenly brimmed with eagerness to help. “I can—ask the god I worship for a little assistance within my power.”

“…” Ode was speechless for a moment. He turned to Cavendish, who clearly wanted extended service, and painstakingly dialed the operator’s number. After the hold music, he asked politely, “I’d like the contact for ‘Grauray Church’… It’s in London. Do you have it on file?”

The sweet-voiced operator provided it promptly, wishing him a pleasant day.

Ode hung up and kept staring at Cavendish as he dialed the number for GORCC’s surface camouflage building. “Looks like the operator’s more generous than the god you worship.”

Cavendish: “…………”