Chapter 30 Part 1

“Nothing a good hour of speeding around in an Aston Martin can’t fix. And if that doesn’t do it, just speed around for another hour.”

An hour and a half later, as Ode floored the accelerator along the A413 Highway, gazing out at the vast, rolling natural beauty of the Chiltern Hills, he resolved to add that line to his personal collection of life wisdom.

All thoughts of Nyarlathotep and the ghouls were swept away by the roaring wind blasting into his ears at highway speeds. He pulled over in the nearby Paine Village to check if Faust had any immediate plans to summon him back. Satisfied there were none, he ducked into a bar for a nightcap coffee.

Amid the deafening thump of music, he reflexively pulled out his phone, intending to scroll through the latest news, but hesitated. For some reason, the conversation outside the monitoring room popped into his mind.

It had been a long time since his mood had felt this light. Under the shifting lights, he toyed with the keypad for a moment before pulling up Cavendish’s number and sending: 【.jpg】

To his surprise, no sooner had he locked the screen than it lit up again: 【Mr. Pea: ? What’s this photo for? Is the suit hanging on the wall made of crappy fabric? Uncomfortable to wear?】

Ode rolled his eyes silently: 【The company issued new uniforms. Thought you might like to picture me in it.】

The reply took a little longer this time: 【Mr. Pea: I’d rather picture what you’d look like after I take it off you myself.】

Ode let out a tsk: 【Then go ahead and picture that. Besides, even if we did meet and you actually got it off me, you wouldn’t be able to see anyway.】

Meanwhile, at the Cavendish manor on the opposite end of London.

Cavendish lounged on the blue leather sofa in his study—the one still bearing those faint scratches—bathed in moonlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The pale glow illuminated the thick tome spread across his legs, encased in tailored trousers.

But the book’s owner clearly wasn’t focused on it anymore. He glanced at his phone, one eyebrow arching slightly: 【Please don’t bully a blind man, sir.】

【The Little Prince with Many Roses: Oh.】

【The Little Prince with Many Roses: Guess we’re done chatting then. Bye-bye, blind man.】

【Mr. Pea: ? Why stop? There’s plenty more to talk about. Like, did you meet any uninvited guests today?】

Ode propped his chin lazily on one hand, mirroring Cavendish’s raised eyebrow from a thousand miles away: 【Plotting during flirtation kinda kills the vibe.】

Mr. Pea’s question marks seemed ready to burst through the screen: 【Only you get to plot?】

Ode was just about to type a reply when a new message popped up:

【Faust: Old Mr. Douglas’s autopsy is complete. He can be buried now.

No signs of anomalous contamination detected in the lab so far. We’ve taken some hair and skin samples for further testing. Eva tidied up Old Mr. Douglas’s appearance… Have you decided when to lay him to rest? If you need a few days, we can keep him in the lab.】

“…” Ode’s fingers froze. The faint smile at the corner of his mouth slipped away unnoticed.

The pounding club music still raged around him, but he stared at the screen in silence for a moment: 【No. No need to delay any longer.】

【We’ll bury him today. I’m heading back now. Grandfather chose his plot in advance.】

·

By the time Ode drove back into central London, the fog Faust had conjured had dissipated.

Oblivious to the night’s events, the city’s residents flowed ceaselessly through the night markets. No one knew, and no one cared, that amid the vast sea of humanity, one man was racing toward the final destination of all life—to bid farewell to his own flickering light amid the myriad lamps.

The sleek silver Aston Martin threaded through the brilliantly lit city center before gliding silently into the deserted Highgate Cemetery.

As Ode stepped out and shut the door, he spotted a glossy black lacquered coffin reflecting the cold moonlight. It stood amid the Victorian-era tombs, weaving past swaying tree shadows and the looming forms of angel statues, finally resting heavily beside a freshly dug grave.

“Ode!” Little Qianning’s blond hair suddenly poked out from behind a tree, and he called out before realizing his outburst was inappropriate in this place. He quickly lowered his voice and hurried over. “Are you okay?”

Little Qianning had changed into a somber black suit, his tie now white. He’d even tamed his hair into a more serious style, no longer spiking rebelliously: “I’m really sorry for all the asshole things I said to you before… None of it was sincere. Mr. Faust said this funeral was arranged on short notice, so I figured you might not have had time to invite many guests. That’s why… I came on my own. Maybe you need someone by your side right now, especially at a time like this.”

“…” Ode turned his gaze to Little Qianning, his expression somewhat blank.

He realized he still wasn’t ready.

That carefree, buoyant pleasure from half an hour ago had been abruptly hollowed out of his chest, leaving only bewilderment and a sour ache sloshing around inside him. His feet felt planted in muddy cotton, the Earth’s gravity tugging at his ankles, as if urging him not to approach that narrow grave.

Faust emerged from the bushes and silently patted his shoulder: “It’s okay if you can’t pull yourself out of it yet. Expecting someone to detach from the loss of a close relative in less than a month was never reasonable to begin with. Back when I came out of my… fog, it took me nearly half a century after my wife passed.”

If Ode’s spirits had been higher, he might have quipped, “Half a century? Just how old are you?”

But in the flickering shadows, he merely lifted his heavy gaze to Faust and Little Qianning, who watched him eagerly, then strode straight toward the grave.

What he didn’t say was that he felt he might not have that kind of time to wallow in the past, to stand still.

Nyarlathotep’s two gazes loomed like an inverted clock tower. He didn’t know when the hands would strike zero—or what would happen after.

Visions of figures screaming or fleeing amid war-torn smoke flickered before his eyes once more. Ode stepped up to his grandfather’s coffin and paused for a long moment, running his hand over the glossy black surface. Then he signaled to the GORCC soldiers on either side. The dark coffin swayed slightly as it was lowered into the open grave.

A handful of earth sprinkled down onto the lid, scattering and settling still.

The officiant spoke, his words drowned by the wind.

“Ahh—ahh…” Who was crying in the breeze? It sounded so awful, so wretched.

Ode’s awareness blanked out for an instant. When he came back to himself, Faust and Little Qianning were supporting him by the arms, dragging his limp body out of the pit and onto a stone bench at the cemetery’s edge, where he half-collapsed.

“It’s okay… it’s okay.” Little Qianning held him tight, pressing Ode’s head to his chest. His hands soothed and restrained in equal measure, as if afraid Ode might break free and leap back into the grave. “I’m here. We’re all here… I feel like crying too.”

Little Qianning’s voice cracked with tears.

Soon after, Faust pried him away and slipped a lit cigar between Ode’s lips. The harsh, knife-like smoke flooded his lungs with each breath, making him cough violently—as if he might hack up a lung. But somehow, in that masochistic pain, the emotions that had surged so fiercely from too long evaded and suppressed began to ebb. Moments later, he removed the half-smoked cigar from his mouth.

“No more?” Faust eyed his expression. “Not like I could take it back and finish it now that you’ve had your mouth on it. Don’t feel bad—this stuff’s cheap. One thread from that suit of yours could buy a mountain of these cigars.”

Ode glanced at the cigar, paused, then stubbed out the one clearly laced with a sedative: “I can’t keep relying on this to steady my nerves every time.”

It was time to move forward.

Time to truly bid farewell to the past and move on.

Ode pocketed the cigar to toss in a public bin on his way out of the cemetery. He returned to the grave and completed the final rites smoothly this time, watching as the coffin was gradually, completely covered by soil.

Little Qianning, wracked with guilt, snatched the handkerchief from Ode’s still-trembling hands—hands not quite up to the task—and wiped down the headstone.

Grandfather’s wise, piercing gaze met his over the half-moon glasses in the photo, his serene expression carrying a quiet understanding.

In a daze, Ode was whisked back to some afternoon years ago. He and Grandfather sat in the study, each reading in companionable silence. After a while, Grandfather puffed on his pipe and said, “You should try some hobby classes.”

“Hm?” Sun-warmed and drowsy from a sneaky nap, Ode jolted awake and turned like a startled cat from the windowsill.

“Your parents were always reluctant to enroll you in all those courses—painting, music, fencing… I think they went overboard. Look at you now. What hobbies do you even have?” Grandfather drew on his pipe, tendrils of smoke rising golden in the sunlight.

Ode slumped lazily back against the windowsill: “Of course. Isn’t politics a hobby?”

“That’s your major.” Grandfather tapped his pipe in disapproval at the dodge. “I remember you being interested in everything as a kid—drawing… singing… violin. You’re still a student now. It’s not too late to pick them up again.”

“What’s so fun about that?” Ode had yawned, leaning against the window glass. “You probably have no idea how many classmates would trade their endless art classes for parents who played with me every day.”

“But they’re gone,” Grandfather said.

It was only later that Ode dimly realized how early Grandfather had pulled back the veil on death’s cruelty:

“They can’t play with you every day anymore. So you decided nothing in the world could bring you the joy you got from playing with your parents?”

“—Ode, my boy. If that’s really how you feel, what will you do the day I leave you? How will you face reality?”

Ode snapped out of the memory, staring at the silent Grandfather on the headstone.

Locking eyes with those still-calm, wise ones, he recalled Grandfather’s final words that afternoon:

“—You’ll lose yourself completely.

“You’ll find yourself untethered in this world, with no one and nothing mattering to you. Life in this lonely place will feel meaningless. You’ll want to die.

“But we don’t want you to die.

“Do you think I, or your parents, would want to see you follow us the moment we’re gone?”

“—Find new anchors for yourself. New goals, new hopes.

“Remember, child—death is always longer than life. No need to rush to join us.”

“…”

Ode briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he rose from beside the grave.

The wind lifted the hem of his coat and the strands of his disheveled hair as he laid the bouquet of roses he had bought on the way across the tombstone. In a low mutter, he said, “I’m leaving now, Grandfather.”

He still hadn’t found a new anchor in life, a new reason to hope. But he now knew what his new goal was.

“Until next time.”

Five minutes later, in Faust’s Jaguar.

Little Qianning had said he was coming along to keep Ode company, but after Ode’s emotional breakdown, it was the younger man who had passed out cold in the passenger seat, snoring away with faint red marks still lingering at the corners of his eyes.

“This kid probably never saw you cry before,” Faust remarked. “He couldn’t even imagine it. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have looked so dumbfounded the moment he saw tears on your face.”