Chapter 16 Part 2

“…” Dustin thought to himself that Finnian hadn’t seen the two of them shoving each other at the escalator entrance.

Numbly, he passed on his wisdom to Finnian: “Just think of them as two GPTs pretending to be human and chatting.”

Hastur caught the snark from his companions and took umbrage at Dustin’s analogy. But rather than quibble over “How dare you compare me to some AI,” he pressed: “What’s Hyades?”

“It’s the Hyades Cluster,” G8273 replied, stepping back to give him space. “From what I’ve found, the Cradle Cult believes the King in Yellow—Hastur—resides in Aldebaran, the brightest star in Taurus.”

“There lies Carcosa, the ruins of an ancient city. Hastur dwells in Lake Hali beside Carcosa.”

The inner voice fell abruptly silent.

Hastur stared at the stage ahead, momentarily at a loss for words.

G8273’s information was concise and precise, summing up in five seconds the question Hastur had chased for twenty-three years—”Who am I? Where did I come from?”—a mystery that had seemed forever unsolvable.

He didn’t even know if he should feel elated at the answer or wistfully moved. In his daze, he heard himself speak again: “Aldebaran—”

“It’s an ordinary star.”

G8273 seemed to anticipate the question: “After finding the Cradle Cult’s records on you, I borrowed the Company’s satellites to observe Aldebaran specifically.”

“No Carcosa. No Lake Hali. It’s just an ordinary star.”

G8273’s voice was as gentle as it could be, as if he knew he was pronouncing something akin to a mental death sentence.

The tattered yellow robe suddenly expanded and contracted several times in the darkness, like a heart floating in the ocean depths. After a few violent throbs, it finally stilled.

Dustin and Finnian both shot him concerned looks. Hastur heard the choristers on stage chanting in a monotonous, low, nearly flat tone:

“…Lost Carcosa stands amid the mist,

casting the form of towers piercing the heavens from the abyss.”

…This can’t be real.

The inner voice rumbled heavily:

I hate the name Hyades. But ‘Carcosa’ stirs nostalgia. And—if Carcosa never existed, how were we born?

This is just a game world, Hastur… How can we seek our true origins inside a game? Maybe we shouldn’t have lingered here so long, letting fiction blur with reality.

Hastur had no intention of pointing out that it was the inner voice itself that had strongly insisted he spend more time in the game.

Perhaps the modifications G8273 had wrought on him earlier hadn’t fully faded. He could clearly feel something fist-sized thrumming wildly at the center of his body, as if screaming to expel the alien emotions that threatened to burst him apart.

For now, he had no idea how to handle this unprecedented sensation and simply ignored it, turning his gaze back to the stage.

Sensations from all directions mingled and seeped into his senses.

He could smell the decaying, near-death aura on the Nirvana Gang Leader to his right, and the suppressed excitement on the left-wing gang members to his left.

Most of the audience relaxed as they watched the play; farther back in the stage wings, two probable Cradle Cult priests conducted a devout memorial rite.

—And amid this chaotic blend of scents, he detected something stronger, more uniform: GABA, adrenaline, thyroid-stimulating hormone… “Fear.”

Hastur paused, tracing the scent to its source. On the stage, he met pairs of terrified eyes.

Those eyes hid behind the actors’ masks and heavy makeup. Under the stage lights, not a single audience member noticed anything amiss.

Mindful of his promise to Detective Dustin, Hastur said: “—Detective, can you scan the actors’ ID info?”

The System chimed cheerfully:

【Hidden quest triggered: [The Dean with Employees in Mind’s Luck is Never Bad]】

【Quest reward: 5 Freedom Points】

Hastur: “…?”

The windfall somewhat diluted the unfamiliar, rotten mood in Hastur’s heart. He perked up a bit, lingering on the phrase “with Employees in Mind” for a few seconds:

When did Detective Dustin become his employee? —Whatever, any employee that generates Freedom Points is a good one!

Detective Dustin reflexively said “What?” but complied efficiently: “—No can do. They’re wearing masks!”

“I can only pull data on Phoenix District residents and wanted criminals across regions. They’re clearly not in either category. Probably actors Coran Domino hired from elsewhere…?”

Dustin sensed something off: “Why do you ask?”

“They’re nervous,” G8273 said, his eyes fixed on the stage through his sunglasses. They gleamed briefly, his ink-green optical pupils exuding an inhuman, eerie, bewitching allure in the dark.

Finnian leaned forward: “I’ll check the wings? I can play it off as being smitten with an actor and angling for a romantic night—no one should suspect.”

Oh. The inner voice recovered, sighing appreciatively. What an excellent familiar.

Hastur couldn’t agree more.

He watched Finnian slip into the shadows toward the wings, silent and swift as a panther. As his gaze returned to the stage, a hand extended toward him.

“?” Hastur instinctively bristled at the AI, which rarely brought good news.

“Just an earpiece.” Amid the Queen’s mournful aria on stage, G8273 pushed the device closer. “Even though the ship is under the ‘King in Yellow’s protection,’ controlling internal electronics still works fine.”

“I’d bet the crew swept for bugs before departure, but someone always manages to plant them in the ship’s nooks and crannies.”

Dustin eyed the earpiece longingly, knowing with his toes he wasn’t getting one, so he chimed in on the topic: “Guess who planted them? Not Coran—this is his ship; he could install whatever he wants.”

“Maybe both Nirvana Gang factions did.” Hastur tucked the wireless earpiece under his hood. “Otherwise, seeing each other like this, they wouldn’t still be sitting pretty.”

“Sticking it out here patiently probably means they want to figure out Coran Domino’s game.”

“Or maybe Coran partnered with one side. Or he’s planning a real ‘worship rite’ tonight.” G8273’s hand rested on Hastur’s earpiece, cycling through bugs. “—Got it.”

A burst of static crackled in Hastur’s earpiece, then cleared abruptly:

“…I told you, this front-half show’s just smokescreen to loosen up those old foxes—” A young voice, laced with irritation, seemed to be explaining.

But a meaty thud followed from the other end, and a raspier voice warned sinisterly amid the young man’s cry of pain:

“Don’t think we can’t see through your little schemes, Coran Domino. You’re waiting for those geezers to approach you with bids, then deciding which of us to side with.”

“You’re planning to exploit Hastur’s worship ritual to stage a scene where a group of people get whisked away by an evil god, chosen as sacrifices. But this group could just as easily be those old codgers—or it could be us.”

The hoarse voice dropped even lower, like the hoot of an owl at midnight: “We won’t give you that chance.”

G8273 shot a quick glance at Hastur, apparently worried that Hastur might fly into a rage and lash out.

But in truth, Hastur let out a sigh of relief instead. “I knew there was no such thing as a free lunch in this world.”

He turned to Detective Dustin, who was staring at him expectantly, and explained: “Coran wants to use the ritual to lower the enemy’s guard and wipe out one faction within the Nirvana Gang—that means he’s definitely going to perform a transfer ceremony.”

What did he care about the reasons for the transfer or how devout they were? He had no intention of taking Coran as one of his followers anyway.

Dustin listened with growing confusion, his head spinning. “Isn’t the main point how he plans to kill his enemies? —Is it the Golden Honey Wine? I knew there was something off about that stuff! Does it have some kind of slow-acting poison in it?”

G8273 propped his forehead on his hand and let out a chuckle, lazily tapping the cup of honey wine—laced with whiskey—that sat beside Hastur. “If there’s poison in any of the drinks, it’s all probably concentrated in your dean’s cup.”

Hastur had already quietly placed the cup on the armrest between himself and G8273, giving off a distinct air of self-delusion—like he was saying, “I’m no kitchen killer; food doesn’t lose Sanity points just from passing through my hands.”

He met Dustin’s gaze, which shifted from shock to dawning realization, then back to even greater shock. Hastur desperately wanted to defend himself, but since facts spoke louder than words, he could only offer a lame excuse.

“Maybe I just wanted to recreate what the real ‘Golden Honey Wine’ is supposed to taste like.”

Detective Dustin couldn’t fathom it. “But you didn’t even mix it yourself—you were just holding it!”

Hastur cut him off curtly. “…Let’s get back to the original topic.”

He steered the conversation forcefully back on track. “The key isn’t just how he plans to kill his enemies, but which enemies he’s targeting.”

Detective Dustin wasn’t slow on the uptake; he was simply missing some crucial details.

Hastur nodded toward the backstage area. “There are two Cradle Cult priests back there. Ever since I first noticed them, they’ve been praying—to me—and reciting penitential verses.”

“They’re not happy about Coran hosting this banquet,” G8273 picked up seamlessly. “There’s bad blood between them and Coran.”

So why would Coran invite priests he had a falling-out with to the banquet in the first place?

Dustin caught on quickly. “Coran wants to take them out while he’s at it?”

“No, that’s not right,” Dustin corrected himself almost immediately, his mind racing. “Those two priests will probably stay holed up backstage praying the whole time. They won’t come out to the theater for Coran’s little show.”

“No matter which side Coran allies with, that side won’t have the chance to break away from the fight and deal with the priests backstage. The priests would just slip away in the chaos!”

“—That’s why Coran hired all those mercenaries to pose as sailors? Just to—deal with two priests?”

Dustin found it absurd.

Hastur couldn’t agree more. Those two priests smelled like weaklings from a mile away; Coran could probably handle them with a couple of shots from his gun.

So what was the real reason Coran had brought in so many mercenaries?

G8273 lounged back casually, eyeing the deadly cup of honey wine in Hastur’s hand. “They can’t escape.”

Hastur turned to him. “?”

G8273 looked up, his pale green eyes peering at Hastur through the tinted lenses of his sunglasses, like an old photograph clipped into the shape of shades. “I scanned the entire ship cabin. There’s not a single lifeboat on this yacht.”

“…Coran isn’t worried about getting caught in the crossfire?” Hastur asked. He figured the Nirvana Gang’s left and right factions going at it would make even more of a mess than Finnian had—after all, Finnian still had to watch the cruise ship while protecting it, but the Nirvana Gang didn’t have to hold back. “What if the yacht sinks?”

G8273 fixed his gaze on Hastur and countered with a question of his own. “What if he has another way off the yacht?”

He tapped his earpiece. After a burst of static, Hastur heard a dry, monotonous recitation:

“…By drinking one pint of Golden Honey Wine, we shall enter a stagnant pocket of spacetime.” (Note 2)

“The devout mage may then hold the Seal of the King in Yellow, play the stone flute, and loudly intone the following incantation: