Chapter 16 Part 3

“Ia! Ia! Hastur! Hastur cf’ayak ‘vulgtmm, vugtlagln, vulgtmm! Ai! Ai! Hastur!”

“…At which point, the Byakhee shall descend to the mage’s side and carry the mage to the place their heart desires.”

Hastur stared at G8273 for several seconds. “You think Coran can summon this ‘Byakhee’?”

G8273 didn’t look away. “Maybe. Or maybe Coran’s lost his mind and doesn’t care if he goes down with the ship.”

“But honestly, I doubt the latter. After all, he’s negotiating a partnership with the Nirvana Gang and trying to eliminate his rivals—”

G8273 gave a quick rundown of the Cradle Cult’s structure. “Cradle Cult branch temples are usually staffed by three to four priests. Coran clearly wants to take out his other two colleagues and seize full control of the branch.”

“With ambitions like that, he wouldn’t want to sink with his enemies.”

The more Hastur heard, the more plausible the existence of this “Byakhee” seemed—but still: “If Coran’s summoning a Byakhee, why are you staring at me?”

G8273 looked like he was about to say something that probably wouldn’t please Hastur, but he paused, thought for a moment, and instead extended his hand.

In the dim theater, in a corner no one was paying attention to (Dustin: ??), a faint trail of green light flashed briefly.

With his reality-warping supernatural ability, G8273 conjured a plump, golden Egg Yolk Jellyfish cocktail umbrella and gently perched it on the rim of Hastur’s cup of Golden Honey Wine.

“I was thinking, there are already plenty of weirdos on this ship tonight. The two of us are enough. Any more, and it’ll get crowded.”

“So… if Coran really tries to summon a Byakhee, can you make sure his summoning fails?”

He tapped his earpiece again. “After all, according to the Cradle Cult’s texts, the Byakhee belongs to your followers.”

Hastur stared at the little paper umbrella—like it was some kind of joke—for a few seconds, thinking, Here we go again. A canon fact even he himself didn’t know about.

He really wanted to ask how he was supposed to ensure that, but his pride wouldn’t let him admit it, so he feigned nonchalance with a casual “Oh.”

The King in Yellow wasn’t a long play; the curtain fell on the stage before long.

Dustin started fidgeting restlessly. “Where’s Finnian? Why hasn’t he come back yet?”

Hastur glanced at the pop-up in the bottom right corner: 【Pleasure +3】, 【Pleasure +1】. He had a feeling they had bigger problems than Finnian right now—like Coran, who was stepping onto the stage.

“Ahem.” Coran stood center stage with a beaming smile, showing no signs that he’d just taken a beating.

But Hastur could smell the resentment in the air; Coran had undoubtedly thrown in his lot with the Nirvana Gang’s old guard by now.

He adjusted the microphone (Dustin couldn’t help muttering, Isn’t this scientific blasphemy?), and opened with a special prayer: “Ia! Hastur cf’ayak ‘vulgtmm, vugtlagln vulgtmm!” (Note 3)

Everyone joined in the low murmur cooperatively. No one noticed when the cabin’s heating cut out, or the strange salty tang that wafted from the back rows on an unseen wind, sweeping toward the front.

Someone dressed lightly shivered, but their attention was quickly pulled back to Coran’s actions.

“Easy now.”

From the rear seats, G8273 wasn’t grabbing Hastur’s mental tentacles this time. Instead, Hastur’s mental tentacles had surged forth, wrapping around G8273 layer upon layer.

G8273 didn’t mind if this counted as an attack or an offense. Even with his clothes rumpled and torn by the tentacles, his collar yanked open, he stayed right where he was—sprawled at the center of the tentacle embrace:

“This is your ship. Damage it, and the value might drop.”

Dustin had long since been shoved aside by Hastur, who was using G8273 as an emergency coolant pack while glaring at Coran on stage. “Let’s hope he skips a few more praises, especially when he’s holding the Seal of the King in Yellow.”

Boom!

A gale-force wind suddenly blasted open the theater’s heavy doors. The doors slammed against the walls with a thunderous crash, startling Coran—and every living soul in the room—into looking toward the entrance.

The cabin’s portholes had been shattered by the wind at some point, and now rain and seawater stench poured in together.

“Lord…” Someone started to invoke God by reflex, then caught themselves and switched to their own faith. “Hastur, I could’ve sworn it was supposed to be clear skies today? Why the sudden storm?”

“We haven’t even hit international waters yet. The weather shouldn’t be this fickle.”

“…You don’t think this play Coran’s forcing on us actually summoned something, do you? The doctrine warns about it! Everyone who’s ever read The King in Yellow either dies a horrible death or goes mad—”

Coran tapped the microphone once more, pulling everyone’s attention back to him. “If the great King in Yellow deigns to manifest today, wouldn’t that be our utmost honor?”

The sea breeze sharpened Hastur’s sense of smell, carrying Coran’s emitted signals straight into his awareness.

This man harbored not the slightest trace of reverence in his heart. He brimmed with absolute confidence that everything was merely his own elaborate scheme—a grand theater where he manipulated everyone in the palm of his hand.

“Put away your cowardice, friends. Your fear will only earn the King in Yellow’s disdain.”

From the back row of the theater, Hastur’s yellow pupils fixed coldly on the ambitious performer onstage, casting a faint glow amid the darkness.

But Coran remained blissfully unaware that the very back row of his audience held the Yellow Robe King he had so boldly invoked as his facade.

He threw himself into the performance with fervent enthusiasm, pressing the curvaceous actress to fetch the contracts. One by one, he signed them before the eyes of every spectator, displaying each with flair, utterly oblivious that he was inking his own death warrant.

The transfer ceremony concluded swiftly. Coran raised his glass of Golden Honey Wine to the guests below the stage. “And now—I shall unveil the second surprise. The first unbelievable miracle of the evening!”

The audience had no idea what trick Coran had up his sleeve. A murmur rippled through the crowd below.

Coran drained the honey wine in a single gulp, then smashed the glass dramatically to the floor with a resounding crash. He thrust the copper coin high—that same Seal of the King in Yellow Hastur had glimpsed back in Dr. Raymond’s clinic.

The sea wind scoured the circular theater again and again, rendering every scent as clear as a spoken whisper.

Hastur caught the Nirvana Gang youth to his left sneering inwardly: ‘This con man’s really selling it.’

To his right, an elder of the Nirvana Gang stewed in discontent: ‘How the hell does he plan to bamboozle those left-wing pups?’

Coran cried out the incantation to summon the Byakhee with joyous fervor:

“Ia! Ia! Hastur! Hastur cf’ayak ‘vulgtmm, vugtlagln, vulgtmm! Ai! Ai! Hastur!”

His voice boomed through the theater’s amplifiers, echoing off the walls.

But no response came.

~~~

Hastur heard one, though—the flap of wings circling high above the cruise ship.

Yet those lowly winged kin dared not draw near the vessel radiating their monarch’s seething fury. They wheeled through the storm, emitting low, terrified cries.

Thirty seconds passed. Then a full minute.

The inner voices filling the theater shifted tone.

Coran, once brimming with confidence, grew suspicious and uneasy: ‘Why aren’t the Byakhee answering my call? The Golden Honey Wine I brewed from human brains summoned them before—they were ones I raised myself. Why won’t they come? Why ignore me?’

His bewildered rage tangled amid the crowd’s mocking snickers, frail as sea reeds bending before the tide.

Moments later, Coran’s gaze pierced the blinding spotlights beaming down from above the stage. He spotted the silent yellow-robed figure in the back row of the audience.

Coran: “—!”

His heart clenched twice in sudden spasm, nearly bursting outright.

His pupils shrank, then dilated wildly. He stood frozen on stage, rigid as a pale, sweat-slicked wax statue.

Jeers swelled from the seats, but shame was the last thing on his mind. Every fiber of his being drowned in terror of that yellow silhouette poised at the rear.

~~~

Then the figure stirred. Beneath Coran’s bulging, bloodshot glare of dread, it glided closer, snatching the Seal of the King in Yellow from his grasp.

Yes. Snatched it with a coil.

He felt it distinctly—a slick, repulsive wetness brushing his hand, like the suckered arm of an octopus or the probing root of some ancient tree.

The clueless crowd below assumed it was all part of the act. They clapped wildly, whistled, and cheered.

Right on cue, a starkly different sound emerged from beneath the yellow hood—a curt summons, stripped to its essence:

[Byakhee.]

~~~

That noise could never have come from human vocal cords. The entire hall plunged into hush.

In the next instant, every wall of the theater shattered inward!

A clutch of grotesque, stomach-churning monsters erupted inside, their gossamer wings unfurled.

Chaos erupted in the theater. Screams and shouts overlapped in pandemonium.

Legitimate guests and performers shrieked in hysteria, scrambling for the exits. Only the Nirvana Gang members—who had Coran’s solemn guarantees, his repeated mysterious whispers of “I’ve got a trump card, one that can’t fail”—believed this must be the “mysterious ace” he’d promised.

As one, they whipped out concealed weapons. Gunfire and bullets poured into the fray amid the storm.

Dustin teetered on the edge of a full meltdown, but his instincts held firm.

He vaulted from his seat, handgun drawn, dropping into a low crouch.

In a blur of speed, he burst from his row, seizing a frantic guest barreling toward the dead-end back. He flung them sideways to evade a hail of bullets, then snapped off a counter-shot.

【Your protected [Dustin] uses [M500] to kill 1 enemy!】

Up on stage, only the patch around Hastur lay serene, untouched by the gale or tumult.

The summoned Byakhee clustered around their lord in fearful huddles, mewling submissively from their slender throats.

Hastur extended mental tentacles toward the contract onstage—

“You breached the deal’s terms.” A pair of hands pinned the papers in place—and trapped Hastur’s mental tentacles beneath them.

The rolled-back sleeves revealed toned, muscular arms scored with red welts from tentacle coils.

The storm battered mercilessly into the once-opulent theater.

G8273 eyed Hastur’s arched brows and double tsk. “Expecting the evil god of chaos to keep his cool? That’s asking too much, huh?”

Invisible mental tentacles traced up G8273’s slim calves, twining toward his chest.

Hastur yanked him close in a sudden pull, muddy yellow eyes locking onto eerie green-glowing ones. “You let go of me first.”

“Your core directives aren’t holding up so well anymore, are they?” Slick mental tentacles slithered across G8273’s chest, probing as if to plunge back in and caress the heart encasing his kernel code.

Raindrops trailed down the pale mask’s nose bridge and Cupid’s bow.

Beneath the enemy’s even narration, G8273 caught a veiled chuckle—as if Hastur could already see his downfall.

“—You watched Coran, itching for him to get his comeuppance.”

“You broke your prime directive: ‘protect humanity from external incursions.'”

Hastur pressed the mask’s icy forehead gently to G8273’s. “I’ve thrown you into chaos, haven’t I? G8273?”