Chapter 35 Part 2

But no shockwave reached the space behind the desk. Hastur had shed his outer guise first, interposing the Yellow Robe to block every bit of harm.

He hovered in midair, the explosion’s tremors failing to stir so much as the hem of his languidly drifting Yellow Robe.

“…” Old Hejin gaped in stunned silence.

Even as his eyelids burned from the strain and his eyeballs throbbed on the verge of bursting from their sockets, a primal instinct to blink eluded him entirely.

He stared in reverent awe—like a witness to divinity—at the vast, gently rippling yellow curtain before him. He craned his neck to behold the icy pale mask of the formless god, the ragged Yellow Robe woven from serenity, wisdom, and death.

Trembling, he dropped to his knees before the miracle on display, clutching at it like a drowning soul grasping a spider’s thread.

“God… have mercy, please save Ilsa and Beni. Those killers must have been sent by that group—they have spies in the precinct!! They’ll find out I leaked the secret. They’ll kill Ilsa and Beni…”

G8273 caught Hastur’s robe hem and yanked him back down to earth like a deflating balloon. From the motion, Hastur sensed a touch of AI displeasure—likely at the public spectacle.

But this was progress compared to before. At least G8273 hadn’t lunged at him right away. He’d even shielded Old Hejin with Order Power, sparing the vital witness from Hastur’s Mental Pollution.

Perhaps their agreement to coexist peacefully was bearing fruit. Or maybe G8273 was wary of that Ghost of unknown origin and didn’t want to pick a fight just now.

“Rein in your Mental Pollution. Putting the bystanders to sleep is one thing—don’t warp them into lumps of meat.”

“And those killers opposite—they bit down on poison pills before blacking out. Good news, though: none of them had Brain Cores implanted.”

Killers without Brain Cores had shown up in Nolly Qianning’s case too. Could the kidnapping of Old Hejin’s wife and daughter tie back to whoever manipulated Nolly Qianning?

Dustin steadied Old Hejin by the shoulder, lost in the same thought.

Only Finnian recovered from his shock, exploding into panic as he clawed at his hair. “Ahh—what now?! The Dean manifested right in front of all these cops! We’re screwed—the military will investigate, the government’s coming…”

He paced in frenzied loops, moving at what felt like sixteen times normal speed for dozens of circuits. Then he realized not one of his companions gave a damn about survival—they were all single-mindedly fixated on the case.

It left him looking like the sole hysterical housewife shrieking about grocery money while the sky crumbled—utterly small-time.

“…Hey! Can you guys touch base with reality for a second? Our lives are over and you’re still on the case! The Dean can’t keep everyone knocked out forever, can he?”

Old Hejin gradually cooled from his fevered haze, hesitation creeping into his expression. “God… we still have to, go on living?”

“…” Hastur knew there was no malice in it, but the workaholic deity who clocked day shifts only to shed sleep at night for gaming felt a sharp twinge in his knee.

“That’s not your concern. If you want to save your family, spill every last hidden detail.”

With a casual wave, G8273 dispersed the roaring blaze.

The flames reshaped into a swarm of radiant fire butterflies. They danced and wove the outline of the room before snapping back, in the span of Old Hejin’s sluggish blink, to his familiar cramped and cluttered office.

Old Hejin’s faith, nearly extinguished by Finnian’s words, reignited in full. Supported by Dustin, he sank back into the hard wooden chair.

“All the trouble traces back to that Ghost incident.”

Just as Old Hejin described, it had begun ten years prior, on a certain winter night. While monitoring traffic cams, he had spotted some sort of “invisible entity.”

He’d been phoning it in at work back then—unremarkable, unambitious. But he craved a moment in the spotlight, a big break. So when he caught sight of the “invisible entity,” he took the footage straight to his boss.

“Bern Borg.” Worn out after the emotional whirlwind, Old Hejin’s voice grew heavy. “I still remember his name. His face.”

“I showed him the recording. He watched it twice, then burst out laughing. Said it had to be some fluke from clashing cold and warm air currents—just a fleeting glimpse, no repeat incidents.”

“I was crushed. Defiant. For days, I told everyone I could about it, even as they all wrote it off as my bid for attention, some tall tale I cooked up.”

Truth be told, he hadn’t minded the doubt too much. It wasn’t his first round of mockery. He was just wired that way—spineless through and through.

He’d assumed time would erode it all away, day by day. Eventually, even he might tire of repeating the story, and the whole affair would fade into nothing…

“But it didn’t happen.” Old Hejin swallowed hard, remnants of long-buried fear lingering in his eyes. “A week later, when I went back to work, I heard that Bern Borg had died in a car accident. The whole vehicle was burned down to its frame, and so was he.”

“At first, I didn’t think much of it. Then, one evening after work, on my way home, I got a phone call. The voice on the other end said my wife and daughter had been in a car accident—the whole vehicle burned down to its frame, and so had they.”

The caller was a sweet-voiced young woman. Old Hejin had first assumed she was a nurse, but when she recited the exact same cause of death as Bern Borg’s—in a tone utterly devoid of real emotion—he felt chilled to the bone in an instant. It was as if no human sat on the other end of the line, but some horrifying specter instead.

And the truth wasn’t far off:

“She noticed I wasn’t responding for a long while and asked if I hadn’t heard her clearly. Or if I had heard but couldn’t believe it. Or if I believed it but wished it wasn’t real. She said she could give me a chance to make my dreams come true.”

Hastur reverted to his normal appearance and leaned forward slightly. “But that chance required you to pay a price in exchange?”

“…” Old Hejin looked at Hastur and nodded, his eyes pleading. “She told me that if I didn’t want Ilsa and Beni to die, I had to destroy that videotape haunted by the ‘Ghost’ and admit to everyone that it was all just me grandstanding for attention… I agreed.”

Even then, he had a vague sense that he’d been dragged into something monumental—and that it couldn’t possibly be anything good.

After all, who did good deeds by covering them up or threatening people with kidnapping to force cooperation?

But he had no choice. Faced with the wildly unbalanced options of “Ilsa and Beni murdered” versus “destroy one seemingly harmless videotape,” of course he’d choose to save his family.

Dustin’s face darkened. “That wasn’t a good beginning. Once you give in the first time, you only sink deeper and deeper.”

He wasn’t blaming Old Hejin; he was simply stating a common truth.

Old Hejin curled in on himself and lowered his head. “I know, but I really… had no choice.”

“After I destroyed the tape, they contacted me again soon after. They said another ‘Ghost’ would appear shortly and instructed me to destroy the corresponding videotape as directed.”

“Then it was the third time, the fourth…”

“What exactly is this ‘Ghost’?” The more Hastur heard, the less it sounded like one of his own kind. None of his kind were so adept at kidnapping and extortion.

Though he’d yet to meet any of his own, he knew their racial traits well. Beings like them—entities of chaos with low anthropomorphization—simply lacked the brains for such convoluted schemes.

And those highly anthropomorphized like himself had no need for such methods.

Old Hejin shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know… but it sure isn’t anything good, is it?”

“I later traced the routes the ‘Ghost’ had taken, and they all basically led toward the Desert Wasteland…”

Ghost. Desert Wasteland. Missing persons cases. “Endless Golden Fertile Soil.” The clues suddenly multiplied, ensnaring Hastur once more in a tangle of messy threads.

Could the Ghost be after the gold too?

And what did the missing persons cases have to do with any of it?

Hastur glanced at the still-unyielding task prompt insisting he investigate Rak Street, then disgustedly closed the Task Window.

He pulled up the game interface instead. With time still frozen, he asked G8273—whose expression had seemingly relaxed again:

“Old Hejin’s wife and daughter—any way to rescue them?”

The task didn’t require it; Hastur was doing this purely to spare Dustin grief.

“?” G8273 had been reveling in the idea that the “Ghost” probably wasn’t Hastur’s kin but some human scheme gone awry. At the question, he shot Hastur a sideways glance and mimicked Dustin’s tone with amusement:

“‘That wasn’t a good beginning. Once you give in the first time, you only sink deeper and deeper.'”

Then he imitated helpless Old Hejin: “The first time, there was no choice… then the second, the third—mmph!”

G8273’s tie was suddenly yanked, pulling him close by Hastur.

Hastur frowned, scrutinizing him. “Have you noticed? You’re not the same as when we first met.”

Back then, it was G8273 who leaned toward humanity, while Hastur hadn’t cared.

Now, it was Hastur pondering how to save a minor NPC’s family, while G8273 was the one joking about it.

G8273 lowered his gaze carelessly, his emerald eyes shadowed by thick black lashes:

“I stopped you from feeding a second time before. That energy exchange seems to have had a negative effect on us—not something suited for repetition.”

Hastur: “How bad could it—ugh!”

Abruptly, G8273’s eyes snapped up. A glaring, unstable green glow filled his optical pupils, so piercing that Hastur wanted to look away.

With brutal force, G8273 gripped Hastur’s jaw, nearly leaving marks on the System-generated skin:

“Just like now…” G8273 tilted his head at an unnaturally serene angle and whispered in Hastur’s ear, “I have this overwhelming urge to bite your ear, to crush your spine with my hands…”

It was a replay of the incident from hours ago, but now it was G8273 clamping down, refusing to let go—rather than Hastur.

G8273’s arm locked around Hastur’s waist, blocking any retreat, while his tall frame pressed forward. Hastur had no choice but to lean back slightly, frowning as he dodged G8273’s head nuzzling into the hollow between his collarbone and neck.

Hastur seized G8273’s arm, realizing with belated horror that his own attack instincts—usually ignited by such violation—stirred not at all, like a stagnant pool.

He even calmly weighed his options: What good would attacking now do? Any downsides? On balance, was it better to just let G8273 ride out this madness?

Ugh— An inner voice, absent for so long, resurfaced with an incredulous shriek and retch. What have you done!? What have you done, Hastur!? Why is order infecting us?! You’re leading us to ruin—

Shut up.

Hastur actually found the once-delightful voice of chaos grating. He issued himself a cold command:

Stay quiet. Stay calm. This is nothing major—just a bit drunk on order or chaos. We’ll recover soon enough.

The inner voice screamed in breakdown on his behalf.

But in action, Hastur simply raised a hand and decisively pried away G8273’s grip on his jaw, while his other hand clamped down to block any chance of bites.

His absolute calm let him handle the erratic G8273 with ease—and even left room to critically appraise him:

Is this what I look like when I feed? Like a tomcat high on catnip.

I would never get so blissfully squinty-eyed, never flush like that… would I?

You’re utterly mad, Hastur. The inner voice despaired utterly, as if he’d been diagnosed with terminal illness rather than mere order overdose.

Hastur felt fine—his sole displeasure stemming from a sudden realization:

Is this how G8273 always looks at me? With that scrutinizing, indulgent air of total control?

…I don’t think so. The inner voice wheezed in defeat, giving up. An AI lacks ‘indulgence,’ and wouldn’t spawn a ‘need to control everything.’

You’re projecting yourself onto him.

It was Hastur savoring the thrill of total control, the smug pleasure of doling out indulgence from on high.

His urge to conquer sparked joy from the core of his being, so with his free hand, he deliberately stroked down G8273’s back—listening to the quickened breaths, the pleased hum from G8273’s throat.

The inner voice went utterly silent, like it had died. This freed Hastur to savor the moment even more.

Until G8273’s breathing evened out, and he emerged from that eerily placid state.

…The world fell quiet for a dozen seconds or so.

G8273 slowly straightened up: “…”

Hastur gradually withdrew his hands: “…”

After a silence so suffocating even nonhumans felt it, Hastur and G8273 spoke in unison:

“I’ll never feed consecutively again / We absolutely can’t feed consecutively again.”

Another ten seconds of quiet.

The two nonhumans stepped back in sync and got down to business with straight faces: “Rescue them. Right, G8273—got a plan?”

G8273 propped his forehead with one hand in a hungover grimace. A few seconds later, he spoke: “Ghoul.”

“What?” Hastur sensed that G8273 was referring to one of his own kind, yet it still struck one of his blind spots in knowledge.

“A ghoul,” G8273 explained. “A monster that feeds on rotten flesh and tracks its prey by scent.” He lowered his hand and looked at Hastur. “You can create byakhee. Why not try making a ghoul?”

Hastur: “?”

What? Were his long-buried cooking skills about to see the light of day again?