His mouth twitched. It was like a cooked duck suddenly springing back to life and slapping him across the face with its wings.
Irritation and thunderous rage filled his chest, but he couldn’t let it show—or risk drawing Nodens’s attention.
Ode seemed oblivious. He merely rubbed his abdomen and sat up.
Faust’s voice came through the earpiece, laced with sudden relief: 【Thank God… you little brat, you nearly scared me to death! I can handle the Elder Gods not being on our side, but you—】
A clatter of impacts and friction followed as Faust pinched the mic and growled in a low threat: 【You stole every last one of my heirloom treasures. You’ve got a duty to look after me in my old age, keep cigars on my grave, got it!? Try dying before me and see what happens!】
“…” Ode paused, still disentangling himself from the memories.
But he moved again soon enough, rubbing his bare arms as if chilled, and turned away. “Have you seen my clothes?”
The box’s overhead lights were off, leaving only a reading lamp half-shaded by its metal hood—like a spotlight on stage. The red-haired youth sat solitary in that lone beam, his skin so pale it seemed to glow with a hazy sheen.
The lean yet defined lines of his muscles tensed beautifully and resiliently as he twisted, tempting anyone to reach out and…
Thud.
Hypnos’s palm pressed against the red-haired youth’s abdomen, shoving him flat onto the floor. “I healed you. Shouldn’t you show some gratitude?”
Ode obediently lay still on the crimson carpet. His thick, dark-red lashes fluttered once, spilling that lush green like treacherous lake-light from beneath. “What kind of gratitude?” he said, half-scolding, half-petulant. “Your hand… it hurts.”
Across Bow Street, Nyarlathotep—dazed by Sister-in-Law’s charms—jolted awake at the words. “‘It hurts’? Hurts—? What a joke! The guy lit himself up with a lighter without blinking! A little press is gonna ‘hurt’?”
The shock lasted mere seconds before lustful craving sparked a flicker of wishful thinking. “Is this… pillow talk? Yog? Has Sister-in-Law ever said that to you?”
“…” Once. Back when Ode had tried using feigned weakness to achieve his goal.
Cavendish watched Hypnos, who had started out just venting his anger but was now sinking into obsession once more—like Chorazin half a month prior.
The self-proclaimed hunter devoured fiercely, oblivious that his seemingly helpless prey was nestled against his neck, fingers gently caressing the pulse in his throat.
—Ode held back. His thinking was crystal clear.
With his memories fragmented, he knew next to nothing about the Elder Gods right now. Even with memories intact, they’d been brutally hard to fight. Charging into war against both the Outer Gods and Elder Gods empty-handed? No chance.
But if he couldn’t kill, there was a second option—
“Assimilation.”
Three days ago, in the lab, Eva had handed Ode a vial of strange gray matter. “I extracted this from your blood… I’m not sure how to classify it, but we can tell you for sure: this is what made Chorazin and Cthulhu start morphing toward you infinitely after getting your blood on them.”
“We ran a bunch of deductions and tests. In the end, we confirmed that back in R’lyeh, you didn’t push this power to its limit. If… you get enough chances, you could probably assimilate them completely. Cthulhu might become… part of you? A puppet? An extension of your mind? Something like that.”
He fell silent for a moment, then joked lightly to lighten the mood. “You probably don’t pull this out of human blood every day, right?”
The gray matter in the vial churned like a tiny chaos mist, battering against the glass walls.
Ode pocketed the vial clearly meant for him. “How much of this from 6000cc of blood? Need me to donate more?”
“…” Eva hesitated, then shook her head. “You can’t imagine how much of this we extracted from that blood. It was practically endless… Ode, if this is the fallout from your corruption? With this concentration in your veins, I don’t think it’s good news.”
…Whatever.
Ode tilted his head back in a daze as Hypnos eagerly took what he wanted. Arms looped around the god’s neck, so Hypnos didn’t notice the red-black arc of light flickering between Ode’s fingers. A vial full of gray mist appeared in his hand.
Without hesitation, Ode tilted his head back and drained the mist in one gulp. Then he hummed softly, burying his face against Hypnos and seeking a kiss as if for comfort.
In his memories, he had once asked Eva: “How many vials of this to take down a Cthulhu?”
“Oh, couldn’t say,” Eva had shrugged. “No Cthulhu in the lab for testing. But with what we’ve got, the refined mist works faster. We ran the theoretical models—the data suggests… three to four days?”
“Here, hold out your hand.” Eva pressed two vials into Ode’s palm. “The lighter one’s low concentration. The darker one? We took the initial extract, blended in nearly half again as much refined stuff, and tempered it. Should cut assimilation to… within a day? All theory, though, so use with caution.”
The deep-gray formless mist slipped into Hypnos’s mouth amid their tangled kiss. The Sleep God, lost in desire, sensed something off for a split second.
But he always chased pleasure first. He paused only an instant before cupping the back of Ode’s head and kissing deeper.
Slender and sturdy bodies entwined, wings shuddering as they unfurled, then drooping limply. Shed old feathers stirred and fell in the dim room until all sounds ceased.
Hypnos’s chest heaved against Ode’s. Moments later, he couldn’t resist kissing Ode’s temple, the bridge of his nose. “I want to whisk you back to the palace and hole up forever… Damn Hastur. Damn mission.”
Ode’s breaths came more ragged than Hypnos’s, his voice trembling in a way that masked the blade beneath the desire. “Then let’s make it quick. Kill Hastur sooner… You don’t have any countermeasures for Hastur in the Phantasmal Dream Realm?”
—They had to.
Ode was certain.
All those fractured memories from countless cycles hinted that the Elder Gods had once granted him weapons against the Outer Gods. But this round, he’d killed too ruthlessly, so they probably figured he didn’t need extra help and offered none.
That wouldn’t do. To get a donkey turning the millstone, you’ve got to dangle a carrot or some fodder first.
“Yes… we have it.” The Sleep God finally propped himself up on one elbow. “We have a wine… brewed using the power of Ghroth. To the Outer Gods, it’s a poison that tears through the guts. But you’ve only just fallen out with Hastur. It killed you. Even if you suddenly appeared before It, It wouldn’t drink it, would It?”
A shadow flickered in Hypnos’s eyes. Truth be told, more than the impossibility of it, He simply had no desire to share something that belonged to Him alone.
Ode seemed utterly oblivious to the Sleep God’s private thoughts. He merely bent one leg, nudging Him gently with his knee. “Let me try. Don’t you want to put an end to all these tiresome affairs sooner? I certainly do.”
The red-haired young man rose, swept up in desire, and pressed his soft lips to the Sleep God’s ear. “I’m not full yet.”
—
If Cthulhu had been there, He might have kindly warned the Sleep God that it was best, at times, to take Ode’s words at their simplest, most literal meaning.
Unfortunately, Cthulhu’s very avatar had been thoroughly devoured by Ode, its remains buried in the depths of his stomach.
“…”
The Sleep God’s ear tips flushed scarlet from the surge of hot blood. He held back for a long moment before finally pulling away. Reaching into the Dream Realm, He retrieved a small dish of golden wine. “Make it quick. I can’t wait any longer either.”
The red-haired youth offered only a lazy smile, a seductive allure gleaming from the corners of his eyes and brows. Yet that face, those verdant green eyes, remained pristinely pure, untouched by any stain—as if filled only with simple trust. “This time, if I fail, will you come to save me too?”
“Of course! Of course…” The lie flowed against Ode’s ear like honey. The Sleep God kissed the stray hairs at the side of his face, taking advantage of Ode’s blind spot to let wild joy—and ambition reignited, overwhelming even his desire—gleam in His eyes. Joy at the prospect of a second chance He hadn’t dared hope for. “Go on. I’m with you.”
“…”
Beneath the lamplight, the red-haired youth smiled silently. At least for this moment, the Sleep God had no inkling of the thoughts in his heart: “You will indeed be with me… just not in the way you imagine.”
Ode rose to his feet and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, accepted the clothes the Sleep God eagerly handed over. Shirt and suit gradually cloaked his form once more in an aura of restraint and abstinence.
He plucked up the dish of golden wine and sauntered unhurriedly down the long corridor until he encountered the first Yellow Robe Thing. It wasn’t on GORCC’s list of rescued personnel, so it still wandered the shadows restlessly.
Ode halted and whistled twice at the creature, beckoning it like a dog. “Come here.”
—
In truth, drawing Hastur’s attention required no Yellow Robe Thing at all. Anywhere within Hastur’s domain of control, even speaking to a chair would be heard.
But Ode needed a target with a mouth that could drink. Thus, the instant the Yellow Robe Thing shrieked and dove toward him, he seized its throat with one brutal hand and slammed it against the wall!
Clang!
The Yellow Robe Thing’s back crashed into the wall, cracking it with a web of fine fissures. It struggled for less than half a minute before the monstrous aspects faded, revealing a face contorted in terror. “No… d-don’t hurt me! I’m human! I’m human!”
“?”
Ode blinked in brief confusion at why the mere sight of him prompted such pleas for mercy. Then he caught his reflection in the eyes of this Brotherhood member: a face brimming with savagery, twisted almost beyond recognition. “—Sorry. Not in the best mood. Don’t worry, I just want to talk to the presence behind you.”
“Wh-wh-wha…” The cultist was too terrified to form coherent words.
Ode ignored him, tightening his grip on the man’s neck and leaning in close, their noses nearly touching. “Everything you said about the Sleep God’s true nature? Spot on. He’s no ally of mine.”
“But you think that’ll make me despair? No… not even death can do that.”
A subtle shift crossed the cultist’s face. “How did you manage it? Why aren’t you dead?”
“Want to know?” Ode arched a brow at the believer, now briefly freed from possession and lost in bewilderment. “I can give you one chance… a shot at true immortality. The only catch: are you willing to bet on it?”
In the dim corridor, Ode leisurely raised the faintly glowing dish of golden wine. Before Hastur’s very gaze, he sliced open his wrist with a silver knife. Blood dripped into the brew with a soft plink, staining it.
The cultist’s expression shifted again, faintly. “You’re basically inviting me to drink some mystery concoction of yours. What if it’s poison? Why would I play along?”
Ode took the dish in his teeth and flashed a faint smile at the frozen, helpless believer. “Because I know myself.”
—
What did “I know myself” even mean?
Who would be fool enough to sit at a banquet from hell, a gamble with nine deaths and one slender chance of life?
Hastur watched as the red-haired youth gripped the cultist’s jaw, heedless of his frantic struggles, and slowly poured the golden-red glowing wine down his throat.
“No, no…” The believer thrashed like a madman, but he was no match for Ode. Even clenching his teeth in desperation, his jaw dislocated in the next instant. Despair poured down alongside the wine.
The golden stream dwindled, until only a thin sheen of light remained.
Hastur’s breath quickened without Its knowing, an unprecedented urge—like blood pounding through Its veins—filling It, clouding Its thoughts, fixing Its gaze unbreakably on that golden glow.
—
Just one leap from the cliff’s edge.
Not so hard, was it?
Was It doomed to remain forever trapped in this cage of no advance, no retreat? Seeming glorious on the surface, yet still quaking at every cosmic threat of death? If It could conquer death… It needn’t weigh Hypnos’s dangers any longer. It could… conquer farther, higher places.
Compared to that, what meaning was there in cowering like a timid ant or rat?
Better to embrace death in a grand gamble than live like this.
The golden wine ebbed away. In the instant before the glow fully faded from the man’s lips and teeth, the terror in the believer’s eyes transformed.
Two pairs of eyes, both blazing with the same reckless madness, locked together. Ode, dish still in his teeth, let a low chuckle rumble from his throat.
Perhaps from the very start—from the beginning—he had never been one for restraint or calm. Madness was his foundation, a thirst for blood and violence his true nature.
Just like in his childhood, raising a gun in the woods at that leaping white rabbit. Blood bloomed from beneath the barrel like a flower. That was the first time he had heard his heartbeat so clearly, so intensely—felt himself alive, brimming with fierce craving and desire.
【▄▇▃▁▆█▁……】
A colossal sound, as if engulfing the entire Opera House, Bow Street, and even the heavens, earth, and world itself, erupted like a whale’s cry, booming and shaking everything.
Across Bow Street, Cavendish—still staring in shock at Hastur apparently losing its mind and courting death—saw its expression change abruptly.
Inside the Opera House, firelight like the sun’s surface erupted beneath the believer’s skin. In the next instant, flesh and the entity within exploded into a cloud of gray ash.
In the open-air café, Nyarlathotep leaped to his feet alongside the crowd startled by the sudden quake. “Azathoth’s glance—It’s looking at Hastur! But why?? Is It awakening?! Why now!”
