To prepare for this illicit surgery, Dr. Raymond had clearly cleared out everyone from the clinic, even the nurse at the reception desk.
It was exactly midnight when Hastur rummaged through the reception desk drawer and pulled out more than four thousand bucks. He habitually glanced up to listen to the night breeze but heard no hoot of the owls that typically prowled the witching hour.
Only the humans lost in their illusory sweet dreams remained—clutching bottles of booze or strippers, shouting and laughing as they chased after things they knew would vanish under the daylight.
“Dean, like you said, we’ve packed up all the medical equipment and drugs from the clinic,” Ithaqua said. He was struggling to maneuver his massive horns through the doorway. “Are you sure it’s okay for us to do this? And how are we supposed to get all this stuff back to the orphanage?”
“I called a moving truck.” Hastur tucked Dr. Raymond’s address book into his yellow robe, determined to leave absolutely nothing behind.
As for whether this zero-cost shopping spree was a problem?
Come on—a body-parts-dealing NPC who had turned red-named was just begging to be taken down by players.
And if these items could be interacted with, weren’t they just waiting to be looted?
Hastur felt zero guilt—he’d never had any to begin with—as he lowered his head and fished the last item from the reception drawer: a dark green account book.
Ithaqua leaned in. “Saman, a pair of natural violet eyes, condition: intact, sale price: three hundred thousand. Kep, kidneys, liver, bone marrow…”
The account book was more than half full, crammed with nearly a thousand names in neat rows. Just flipping through it seemed to carry the thick stench of blood from the paper and ink.
The wind and snow beside him grew heavier and colder, but Hastur remained utterly unmoved.
He ran his fingers along the bottom of the book and felt something hard. He flipped rapidly through the pages until, in the last few sheets, a copper-colored coin slipped free as the pages parted.
Ithaqua caught it nimbly. “Is this some kind of important souvenir?”
“Nah.” Hastur brushed through Ithaqua’s white fur, savoring the soft, pleasant texture by lingering a moment longer before plucking the coin from it. “If it were important, Raymond would’ve stashed it in a safe.”
“This probably belonged to some patient. It fell out of their surgical gown pocket, got picked up by a nurse or janitor, and tossed casually into the drawer—ending up tucked into the account book.”
The round copper coin bore two lines of tiny script:
[Kep Blake]
[AF70 Membership]
Hastur quickly recalled the poor sap from the account book who’d been gutted clean and flipped the coin over. “Probably a commemorative piece. Not sure if it’s worth…”
He froze.
The clinic’s harsh white light fell on the coin, casting an oily, unnatural sheen.
The obverse featured a bizarre raised symbol: a central dot encircled by three short arc lines, with twisted curves radiating outward in three directions.
Perhaps by some regulation—like how you couldn’t just swap out a flag’s colors—the engraver had painted the reverse side jet black.
The writhing lines were done in muddy yellow, slightly raised and sprawled across the black base, resembling some evil, grotesque centipede slumbering in the Black Sea.
“…”
The billowing of his yellow robe slowed abruptly, like a predator feigning lax indifference before the strike.
Hastur stared intently at the strange symbol. He’d never seen it before, yet he felt an inexplicable, profound connection…
Just as a name was the simplest curse to certain Eastern horrors, he sensed something similar linking him to this symbol.
“What is this?” Hastur blurted out instinctively, only then remembering that Lv Zhucao—or any other colleague who could explain things—wasn’t at his side.
To his surprise, though, Ithaqua answered. “One of the Cradle Cult’s insignias.”
Hastur looked over in mild astonishment and saw stars flickering in Ithaqua’s eyes, his gaze tinged with complexity.
He seemed lost in some past memory. “I don’t know its exact meaning, but I saw this mark on my birth father’s arm once.”
“…”
Hastur fell into a delicate silence.
In a busted video game, stumbling on a symbol with a deep connection to himself—like some soul-bound tether—was already pretty weird.
Now that same symbol had shown up on his newly adopted son’s birth dad’s arm?
Just hours ago, he’d dismissed the plot designers as hacks. Now Hastur felt like the game might have some hidden depths after all. “Tell me more.”
He didn’t know what “eating crow” felt like. He only knew that when Hastur wanted something, Hastur got it.
Ithaqua apologized, “I don’t know much… My relationship with my father was never good—or he wouldn’t have abandoned me.”
He thought back as best he could. “Basically, I was born sickly and disabled, so my mother left my father. He thought it was some kind of ‘heavenly punishment’ and ran off to join that Cradle Cult crap.”
“One day, he burst home all excited, showed off his tattoo, and bragged that he’d ‘finally joined up.’ The tattoo was identical to the symbol on this coin.”
“Honk honk—”
A large truck’s horn blared outside the clinic. The equipment was so old it sounded comically rickety.
Hastur tabled the conversation for now. “Drape a sheet over yourself and lie on the stretcher. I’ll have the movers load you up with the gear.”
No way was he returning the gun he’d “borrowed” fair and square.
After settling Ithaqua, Hastur floated out with the railgun in hand, eyeing the burly movers hawkishly as they hauled the equipment.
A few stumbling junkies shuffled past, supporting each other. Some glanced over, but before Hastur could raise the alarm, they turned away bored and kept shambling.
“Another one’s clearing out.”
“Black docs like these have had it rough the last few years… Serves ’em right!”
“Good riddance—we don’t need ’em anymore!”
“Boss,” said one of the burly men, a sweat-drenched stripe tattoo across his cheek as he approached. “Everything’s loaded. You squeezing into the cab with us, or riding in the cargo hold?”
Hastur had dealt with “mission gone wrong: ambushed from the truck bed” tropes before. “Cab— what’s your buddy doing?”
He eyed the lanky guy clambering out of the cargo hold, arms full of spray paint cans.
Stripe Tattoo tensed up and glanced at the electromagnetic railgun in Hastur’s grip. “Phoenix District’s rougher than Delirium—especially nights. Gangs shooting it out everywhere.”
“We’re slapping on a Nirvana Gang mark real quick. Fighting crews give way when they see it…”
“You know Nirvana Gang runs Phoenix District like kings. Borrowing their rep smooths the road.”
Ground-bound trucks were way slower than hovercars, no flight capabilities.
It took twenty minutes to crawl out of the doubly clogged nighttime Delirium District. Once they hit Phoenix’s outskirts, the weary darkness swallowed the hallucinatory neon sea.
Far-off skies hugging the horizon glowed with a sickly fish-belly pallor. The all-night gunfire popped and crackled on, clinging to life.
Luck was with them—no gang war zones en route. The truck pulled up to the orphanage, unloaded, got paid, and peeled out fast.
“Dean, lights.” Ithaqua’s voice was tight, his crimson eyes fixed on the glow inside the orphanage. “It’s those Hawk Gang punks—they’re back!”
Hastur pulled up Ithaqua’s character panel. The guy’s strength stat—twenty times his own—stung a bit. “You’re not weak anymore. Try handling some things yourself.”
The encouraging words blew like a battle horn. The frost-white, horned beast, fueled by years of pent-up rage, roared out of its cage.
Ithaqua’s body smashed straight through the walls and front gate. Snow and gales poured from his mouth and nose.
His hands curved into lion-like claws, pupils contracting into twisted slits. Beneath the inhuman skin flowed human fury and pain:
“Igo—”
The guttural roar echoed through the entire orphanage, jolting awake the punks either crowding around Nissen’s Little Black Room or crawling back to bed.
Rapid machine-gun bursts and charging cannon blasts shattered the false dawn calm, ripping away the cozy facade to expose the gore and brutality beneath.
Thugs and modern weapons flailed in the snow-laced hurricane, snapped apart or flash-frozen.
Ithaqua zeroed in, barreling past foes until he pinned a spiky-headed man by the throat against the wall. “Igo, where’d you sell Qita and Maili?”
Spiky Head clawed futilely at Ithaqua’s fingers, legs kicking in vain.
His upper face was pure cybernetic—a black chassis with red optic lenses, no trace of humanity:
“I didn’t… gah…” Pain forced him to wise up. “Lowend District! Lowend District! That’s where all the rich folks live—they never come to Phoenix District to adopt kids. I just found those two girls a good home… Yeah! I was just helping them out!”
Spiky Head seemed to have found a lifeline in his excuses. He clung tightly to Ithaqua’s hand and rattled them off in a rush.
“The couples who adopted them are a pair of politicians, in the spotlight twenty-four-seven. If they mistreated kids, the reporters would tear them apart—please, I beg you, don’t kill me! I just found those two girls a good home! I helped them!”
“Everyone knows that when big money changes hands, it’s not ‘helping.’ It’s a ‘transaction,'” Hastur said.
He had slaved away as a corporate drone for over a decade. He wasn’t about to be fooled that easily.
“If you really think you were just ‘helping,’ why not go tell that to the narcs? I’m sure they’d be ‘eternally grateful’ for your contributions to the drug trade.”
A red name was a red name. With his health bar lit up like that, did he really expect the player to let him go?
Hastur gave brief thought to whether having Ithaqua kill him would net any experience points. Then he decisively snatched up the electromagnetic railgun and charged it at the red-named elite mob.
The pitch-black barrel glowed red from the heat. In the next instant, a blast of blue light erupted!
“…”
The elite mob, firmly pinned down by Ithaqua, stared blankly for half a second as its limbs spasmed. Then it went abruptly still.
【Congratulations on leveling up!】
【You have gained 1 Freedom Point. Please choose an allocation direction.】
Hastur split his attention in two. With the yellow robe, he patted Ithaqua, who had slumped to the ground in exhaustion, as if to soothe him—but really, the robe just lingered on his fluffy fur. Ithaqua seemed to notice, and his expression grew a touch complicated. Meanwhile, Hastur’s other focus turned to the status panel that had popped up.
【Character: Hastur
Mental/Spirit: 20 (You are the chosen one, Hali P.!)
Intelligence: 1 (You might not have a brain. Even if clues are right in front of you, all you’ll see is thin air.)
Strength: 1 (Physically frail—one shove and you’re down.)
Life: 1 (Be careful not to get a paper cut! You might bleed out.)
Defense: 1 (No protection at all. Just wait for death.)
Agility: 20 (You could try dodging bullets at point-blank range.)】
“…”
Hastur felt like a student cramming the night before finals, except there were too many subjects he knew nothing about to even start.
Still, most attacks could be dodged with agility. So rather than pumping up his physical stats first, it made more sense to boost intelligence.
Otherwise, how would he spot clues? He still wanted to look into that weird symbol.
Cautiously, he added one point to intelligence. The system description shifted just a bit.
【Intelligence: 2 (You might not have a brain. Some clues right in front of you? You’ll still just see thin air.)】
Hastur: “…”
Whatever. Rationally speaking, he wasn’t playing this game for the mystery-solving suspense anyway. It was to vent his nesting desire… Though from six hours ago until now, the total time he’d spent nesting added up to less than half an hour.
A measure of self-doubt crept into Hastur’s mind, along with wariness toward video games.
No wonder his coworkers always said things like, “Get hooked on games and your life’s ruined!” or “You do nothing all day, but somehow hours vanish into the game.” Electronic games really did have something insidious about them.
The thought grew more serious. He immediately straightened out his gaming mindset and reminded himself to stick to his original goal: nesting.
He switched back to the building interface and focused intently…
【Anti-Addiction Reminder! You have been playing for over 10 hours. Real-world time is now 8:00 a.m. Please do not get addicted and forget your normal life and work!】
Hastur: “…?”
How long? What time?
He hadn’t even done much since logging in! How had it reached work hours?
His initial nesting had only lasted about twenty minutes, he’d just spotted that symbol he cared about, and he hadn’t even started investigating—
No. Calm down.
He told himself rationally: This was a game made by the company. Its purpose was to make money—hook players, keep them glued, get them to spend more time and cash.
He shouldn’t fall into such a cheap consumer trap like those human players, toyed with by the sleazy game designers.
With that clear-headed realization, Hastur calmly logged out and headed calmly to work.
He threw himself fully into his tasks, without a single thought spared for the game—not even for a second. He certainly wasn’t pondering a second version of his lair during work hours, or how fun it was to knead that furball, or how boring this job was, or when he’d finally get off shift, or why the clock always seemed so agonizingly far from quitting time.
The calm egg yolk jellyfish was thoroughly battered by work, emerging as a wage-slave jellyfish radiating a faint aura of death.
Finally, at two in the morning.
With his heavy waves of “hair” drooping, Hastur drifted back from H-6 District—site of a recent test-subject rampage—to his lair in H-1 District.
Six more hours, and another workday would begin.
Though he didn’t need sleep physiologically, the Research Center’s training and the Regulator’s influence had long accustomed him to resting briefly between shifts.
No matter what, booting up the game at this hour would be the height of folly—surrendering his ambitions to idle play.
Hastur lectured himself as he drifted to his sleeping spot in the lair and lay down.
A few seconds later, the flattened egg yolk jellyfish slowly extended one tentacle… and yanked the holographic helmet to his side with lightning speed!
The head Hastur had mimicked showed no trace of drowsiness. His eyes gleamed brightly.
He wasn’t human. Why waste precious time on pointless sleep?
Wasn’t it torture to suppress his nesting urges?
Could he break the promise he’d made in the game?
He had successfully converted Ithaqua before—and that had clearly seized some opportunity in-game, leading to a real boost in strength. Even the voice in his heart urged him to linger longer in the game.
Wasn’t growing stronger and evolving the eternal path every non-human pursued?
—Right, and that symbol.
A mark he’d never seen in reality, yet it resonated deep in his soul.
Could he really abandon probing such an obvious secret tied so closely to him?
Armed with a basket of perfectly reasonable and upright justifications, Hastur solemnly… donned the holographic helmet.
【Game loading…】
【September 28th · 8:00 a.m. · Phoenix District · Orphanage】
Autumn sunlight poured over him like a sea of molten gold, startling a very human teardrop and a tiny yawn from the unsuspecting Hastur.
He still remembered his reminder from before logging off last night. Forget all those messy side quests for now—first, open the building interface…
“Dean! Dean!” Ithaqua’s urgent voice rang out from the office doorway, accompanied by the crack of stone and brick.
Ithaqua awkwardly extracted his massive horn from the doorframe. Keeping his voice low, he said with evident anxiety, “Cops from the station are here—their car’s parked right at the orphanage gate. You think they found out about us raiding the Black Clinic yesterday? Or is it the drugs?”
