Chapter 14

The only human present found himself repenting for his own twisted thoughts, because in the next second, the seemingly flirtatious Hastur swung his mental tentacles with a whip-like crack. The patrol car’s electrical system exploded in a shower of sparks, eliciting a piercing shriek from Dustin: “Ah!!! I thought you two were hitting it off!”

Hastur glanced at Dustin in bewilderment. “When? I was just mocking him.”

“？？” Dustin lunged toward his crumpled new car, its hood caved in. His mind raced through a frenzy of contingencies: “A hundred ways to file this report,” “How to convince the boss that the car got assigned and wrecked on the same damn day,” “Do you non-humans turn every bit of sarcasm into flirting?”

Hastur decided that human minds were truly filthy. In the non-human world, there was no such thing as flirting. They only mated for reproduction—purpose clear, process straightforward, no different from conducting official business.

“I’m not riding a bicycle. There’s a few old-model family cars in the backyard left by the Hawk Gang. Pick one and drive it out.”

Hastur’s words were crisp and commanding, like an instructor issuing orders.

Dustin instinctively headed toward the backyard. After a few steps, he froze and whirled back around. “—The Hawk Gang!”

Enlightenment struck like a thunderbolt. “When I asked where they’d gone, you said you didn’t know. Did you really not know… or had you already dealt with them all?”

Hastur responded with a subtle, urging gesture.

~~~

Blowing up the patrol car clearly wasn’t enough to make G8273 back off.

Once they hit the highway, Hastur began sensing the AI’s omnipresent pressure.

Traffic lights they passed flickered erratically; billboards shifted their displays; even roadside pedestrians would suddenly swivel their heads in unison like owls, fixing glowing green eyes on them.

At first, Dustin would curse and rant in frustration. But once he realized G8273 had no intention of attacking, he grew numb to it—even slowing down deliberately in front of the billboards…

“It’s explaining the mating habits of egg yolk jellyfish right now.” Dustin jabbed a finger at one billboard and stated flatly. “Does this count as sexual harassment?”

Hastur saw no connection between the two.

For one thing, the documentary hadn’t jumped straight to mating habits. For another, humans and cats had nothing in common, just like him and egg yolk jellyfish.

At most, under this suffocating scrutiny, he felt irritated. “If you want to fight, then fight. What’s with all these petty tricks?”

Hastur rolled down the window.

A fuzzy black lump like a charred cotton ball immediately squeezed through the gap. Its paw pads trod across Hastur’s yellow robe before it flopped down lazily, curling into a perfect cat loaf.

“You and I both know that starting something now won’t end well. Why talk tough? Why not pick up on your earlier suggestion and negotiate? For instance—what’s in it for you if I tag along to meet Old Neil?”

The biomimetic cat’s ears twitched. It projected a holographic image above its head: footage from a few days ago, when Hastur had burst into the operating room and transformed Ithaqua. “You’ve created a follower.”

“A foster son.” Hastur shook the cat off his robe onto the floor, wary of this overly lifelike industrial product. “So what? What do you plan to do with that footage? Send it to the police station and let humans come hunt monsters?”

“I’d never send humans to die at the Orphanage.”

The black cat adapted effortlessly, licking its lips and tucking in its forepaws as it sprawled on the floor, blending seamlessly into the shadows.

“I just overheard your promise to that child in the footage. I figured you might need my help. Last night, you pulled a segment of contaminated code from me. I can use it to fabricate a human shell for the kid in the video.”

It raised a forepaw and, right in front of Hastur, deleted the Black Clinic’s surveillance records. “So, if you’re satisfied with my offer and sincerity, how about a temporary alliance?”

Detective Dustin shot a quick glance from the rearview mirror.

“?” Hastur looked back. “What?”

“Uh—” Detective Dustin wore the pained expression of someone wondering how to explain this to non-humans. “Normally… human emotional shifts don’t happen this fast? We don’t usually team up with enemies who nearly killed us the night before?”

The two non-humans paused in unison for a few seconds, faces thoughtful.

G8273 mused, “I’m quite certain human cinema features plenty of cases where enemies one moment become bosom buddies the next.”

Hastur frowned in confusion. “Humans really don’t do that?”

Company life was full of yesterday’s backstabbers becoming profit-driven pals today.

“…” Dustin nearly choked. “N-Normal people don’t!”

Flushing with embarrassed fury, he slammed the steering wheel. “And stop watching so many popcorn flicks!”

~~~

Joey Street might be called a “street,” but it was really an independent district like Phoenix District.

Centered around Joey Main Street, it sprawled outward into bustling commerce and traffic hubs.

Bars, discount shops, and seedy strip clubs clustered here, making it the perfect spot for fixers to spin their webs and hide their nests.

“Old Neil rented his turf from a fixer named—’Jaska Jones.'”

Dustin checked his texts and map, guiding Hastur into an underground passage. “He said as long as the price was ‘reasonable,’ Jones could even provide a full medical team—the kind without brain cores implanted.”

All this painstaking effort had been for nothing now that Hastur and G8273 were in cahoots—wasted precautions and cash alike.

Dustin didn’t feel sorry for Old Neil, though. No cop wasted sympathy on gang money. He was saving the man to crack a case, not out of the goodness of his heart.

They breezed past droves of black-suited guards without a hitch. One eyed the cat suspiciously and moved to question them, but Old Neil—still clad head to toe in sterile protective gear—rushed over and barked the man away.

“Do you even know who you’re questioning!?”

“Regardless of this lord’s identity, He’s mortal enemies with the AI we’re guarding against. How could He possibly help our enemy infiltrate?”

“That’s enough! You think I can’t handle something this simple?!”

Dustin: “…”

What if he really couldn’t?

The detective found the situation painfully awkward but couldn’t afford to slip up now. Once inside the private office, he schooled his face into stern professionalism and turned to Hastur—the one clearly better suited for interrogation.

Hastur was petting the cat.

The cat was warm and soft, rising and falling gently in his arms like the world’s tiniest breathing abyss.

He lifted the edge of his yellow robe, stroking from the black cat’s spine to its tail tip, drawing out a rumble of contented purrs. It was as if the abyss itself had tamed under his hand, filling Hastur’s spirit with satisfaction.

Dustin beside him: “……Cough! Cough!!”

Hastur finally snapped out of it, turning to Old Neil—who was rambling excitedly and awkwardly about his faith, his voice muffled and dull through the protective suit. “I want everything you know about the Cradle Cult.”

Dustin nodded. “Especially any links to the missing persons cases.”

“…” Old Neil cut himself off. “I can’t confirm any connection between the missing persons and the Cradle Cult. I can only tell you about my own involvement with them.”

“Whether it’s relevant or not—that’s for you to decide.”

The abyss in Hastur’s arms stirred. The cat’s head swiveled toward Old Neil.

Old Neil bowed his head. His expression was obscured by the suit, but his voice emerged low and steady, like a man delivering his own verdict or confession.

“I first encountered the Cradle Cult three years ago.”

“Nothing special happened that year. One day, after executing an ordinary couple who’d stumbled on gang secrets, I watched the snow on the steps turn red with their blood. A ridiculous wave of remorse washed over me.”

The remorse itself wasn’t ridiculous. What was, was the man feeling it.

A blood-soaked executioner suddenly repenting his crimes—what was that but crocodile tears?

“So I walked into a church. I sat in that bright place, home of the divine light, for an entire afternoon. Then I walked out without saying a word of confession.”

A church, that bastion of light and God, held no place for a sinner like him—one who knew his sins were grave and unforgivable, yet still craved inner peace.

“I’ve lingered in darkness too long. Even if I sought faith before dying of old age, it could only be gods who dwelled in the shadows alongside me.”

“And by chance, that’s exactly the pantheon the Cradle Cult worships.”

Hastur focused intently, sensing the real story was about to unfold.

The black cat lounged lazily against him but suddenly curled its long fluffy tail around one of his mental tentacles.

“…” Hastur flung the cat to the floor on the spot! An inner voice boomed in shock:

What the hell is he doing?? Why wrap his tail around your mental tentacle?? Isn’t that like kissing an enemy’s weapon during a truce??

Old Neil jumped at Hastur’s abrupt cat-tossing, lifting his head in confusion. “Is… is there something wrong?”

Hastur sensed that something was terribly off, but the black cat he’d dropped to the floor simply settled down right there on the spot, tucking its paws beneath itself with perfect composure. Only its overly adventurous tail kept swaying slowly, wrapping around one of Hastur’s mental tentacles with the precision of a black mamba.

This time, Hastur saw it even more clearly. Beneath his yellow robe, countless mental tentacles were leaking mental pollution due to his earlier intense focus.

When that black cat’s tail coiled around one of the tentacles, the overflowing mental pollution was forcibly rewritten by G8273’s power into harmless, rhythmic vibrations.

“…”

The flared tentacles gradually relaxed. Once Hastur confirmed this wasn’t some inappropriate harassment, he settled back into his seat. “Problem solved. Carry on.”

Embarrassment was impossible, of course—most non-humans didn’t experience such an emotion.

He retracted his mental tentacles, using the yellow robe to block the leaking mental pollution, then resumed listening to Old Neil’s recollections.

“…”

Old Neil cast several uncertain glances between Hastur and the black cat before steeling himself and continuing. “It was pure coincidence that day. I’d just stepped out of the church when I ran into a Cradle Cult priest preaching their doctrine.”

“They said their temple held no good or evil, no repentance—just silence.”

“All chaos and order would dissolve into an unending dream within Azathoth’s cradle.”

Dustin tried to make sense of it. “So, faith in the Cradle Cult grants… eternal sleep without waking?”

Talk about weird! Who would be swayed by that kind of teaching?

Believing in God got you to heaven, Buddha took you to the Western Paradise—faith in the Cradle Cult just trapped you in a dream you couldn’t wake from? Maybe only a soul-crushing office drone on Monday morning might buy into it for a fleeting moment.

Old Neil shrugged. “An eternal plunge into an unwaking dream—doesn’t exactly sound like salvation, does it?”

“For someone like me, though, it fits perfectly. Self-torment in exchange for inner peace…”

“What I crave is that certainty of no forgiveness, sins beyond redemption, a life spiraling into an endless abyss.”

Hastur had no interest in Old Neil’s interpretation of Cradle Cult doctrine. He just wanted more details on the gods. “Keep going.”

Old Neil complied. “So I followed them into the Silent Temple—the Cradle Cult’s own church.”

He tilted his head, as if sinking into a relatively pleasant memory.

“That temple was exquisitely beautiful, shaped like a seashell. But inside the shell, there was no light. Every door and window had been sealed shut.”

“Everything drowned in dimness, pierced by irregular low hums that droned on endlessly. The floors were littered with addicts and vagrants—they slept deeply, their snores blending into the noise.”

He gave a small laugh. “In that moment, I felt profoundly moved. It was as if that shadowy church was my true home.”

“Just like the priest said: ‘All chaos and order dissolve into an unwaking dream within Azathoth’s cradle.'”

“It’s all true,” Dustin whispered, leaning close to Hastur. “They shelter addicts and vagrants and the like. I used to have a pretty high opinion of the Cradle Cult back then, precisely because they built such opulent temples yet still let filthy poor folk enter and rest inside.”

Old Neil nodded. “The Cradle Cult isn’t desperate to grow its flock. Quite the opposite—they set brutally strict standards for initiation and promotion.”

“So, I can crudely divide their current formal members into two categories—”

“The first has no faith at all. They’re the type who scheme their way to the top just to rake in wealth through the cult.”

“The second consists of absolute devotees. They rigidly follow every rule, hold rituals on schedule, truly believe the ancient gods exist, and donate massive sums to the church every so often.”

“Massive sums?” Hastur perked up immediately. With only 50,000 left in his pockets, he was all ears.

Dustin didn’t catch on at first. “Temples that lavish need serious funding, right—oh.”

He remembered how Hastur had piled into a jeep with Finnian late at night to hunt bounties, scraping together every last reward from the police station just to fill his piggy bank.

Dustin: “…”

The Cradle Cult knew how to build temples dripping with splendor, but did they realize their god was out here grinding overnight bounties for a measly hundred thousand?

It stung Hastur even more—he was the impoverished god in question.

But asking believers outright for handouts? Impossible. After a moment’s silence, Hastur simply asked, “How does this connect to the missing persons cases?”

“I don’t know if it does. I’m just telling you everything I know.”

Old Neil paused. He couldn’t quite fathom why an ancient god would care about some missing persons case. This Hastur—who sheltered a little detective and even rode in jeeps—didn’t match the Cradle Cult’s image at all.

Out of respect, though, he continued.

“The motives behind missing persons cases usually boil down to money. I’d start with those in the church obsessed with fleecing the flock. For instance—”

Old Neil fished an invitation from his chest pocket. “Coran Domino.”

“He’s the highest-ranking priest I can reach.”

“Trust my eyes—he hosts all those rituals not out of piety. He has the greedy stare of a man who can’t look away from jewels.”

“…”

Hastur and Dustin fell silent in unison.

Given Old Neil’s earlier track record—like claiming “I’ve got this figured out”—they weren’t eager to trust his judgment.

Fortunately, the system promptly gave Hastur a reassuring boost:

【Task: Silver Tongue I (Completed)】

【Task Reward: Freedom Points +5】

【Task: Silver Tongue II (In Progress)】

【Coran Domino is holding a ritual worshiping the King in Yellow in Lowend District. Guess who wasn’t invited? Hastur himself!

Arrive at the ritual site in time and reclaim your sovereignty! (Optional)

Interrogate Coran Domino about details of the missing persons case】

Hastur had no experience with American-style bullying, but the task description had a sassy undertone that rubbed him the wrong way. “…?”

Dustin peered at the invitation. “3:30 PM, Lowend District… 3:30?? Lowend District??”

His voice rose involuntarily. “What time is it now? 2:50! Lowend District is a good fifteen hours from Joey Street by road—how are we supposed to make that ceremony?”

While Dustin fretted over travel, Hastur zeroed in on the oddity. “3:30 in the afternoon? He’s holding a ritual for me at that hour?”

You okay there, little guy? Sacrificing to an evil god in broad daylight? Might as well crack open a zombie’s coffin at noon and demand it show itself under the sun.

The black cat had risen at some point, its mamba-like tail brushing Hastur’s mental tentacle once more—like a hint.

“…”

Hastur’s patience finally snapped.

He pulled up the game interface, freezing time around him, then yanked the AI housed in the black cat right out by force!

Under the influence of mental pollution, G8273 gradually coalesced into a half-transparent phantom.

Perhaps because it wasn’t his full self, his back dissolved into black-green mist, like the vast, diaphanous veil of a deep-sea jellyfish, drifting silently in the air.

But right now, those veils symbolizing the link between fragment and core were tightly entwined and bound by over a dozen mental tentacles—as if Hastur had clamped around G8273’s throat. “Stop. Touching. The mental tentacles.”

“Why?” Pinned to the floor, G8273 showed no hint of alarm, only avid curiosity. “Ever since we entered the basement, you’ve been petting the cat nonstop. Why can’t the cat pet you back?”

“Because the mental tentacles are the real me. The black cat is just a false shell.” Hastur leaned in close to the polluted phantom’s outline. One mental tentacle suddenly plunged into its chest!

A fragment of core code pulsed within the translucent heart in its chest cavity, flickering with each beat.

“…”

The moment Hastur’s mental tentacle coiled around that heart, G8273’s lips drooped. The gaze from his green pupils turned fierce and icy.

Hastur slowly teased the tentacle encircling the “heart,” his cold, bony mask nearly brushing G8273’s sharp nose.

“Like it? Being touched like this?”