Four people were approaching from behind. With every step they took, Lynch felt the fishy stench grow a little stronger.
Their faces were pitch-black, and they wore threadbare, coarse cloth clothes. A crust of chalky white salt had precipitated over the dirty surface, mottling them with black and white patches that gave the impression of a filthy public restroom wall. The coarse clothing was tattered and torn in places, exposing stark white skin that glistened with a coat of cold, transparent mucus under the light of the gas streetlamps.
Fishy odor, intense sun exposure, salt crystals, slime, water-soaked skin—a few key details immediately made Lynch think of fishermen from the sea.
Yet that was merely the direct visual impression. When Lynch instinctively broadened his perception and used his inspiration to sense them, phantom projections emerged around the bodies of these fishermen.
Their appearance was somewhat similar to the slave owner Davis, who had snatched his Red Moon Memories aboard the ship—a fish head on a human body. Beneath their torn clothing, their skin was covered in grotesque scales, and several tentacles protruded from the rips in their backs, squirming and waving in midair while radiating a bizarre, dangerous aura.
Not far around them were guests entering the theater. These people were completely blind to the uncanny sight in Lynch's eyes. As they passed by the fishermen, they simply pinched their noses with looks of disgust and shuffled out of the way, utterly unaware that eerie tentacles were twisting right above their heads, dripping fishy mucus onto them drop by drop.
Waves of fear and nausea surged from his chest. Lynch was all too familiar with this feeling—it was the instinctive reaction to looking directly upon filth.
Neighbor above, my damn inspiration... Why are you making me see weird things again?
The thought lasted only a split second before Lynch suddenly felt an overwhelming pressure sweep over him from the fishermen.
It felt as though he were facing an irresistible, ferocious beast—a beast baring its blood-stained fangs directly at him.
No, it wasn't just a feeling.
The tentacles behind the fishermen suddenly raised high into the air in unison, their tips pointing from afar at the theater manager below. At the same time, their feet accelerated as they charged violently toward him.
Theater security guards were gathering from around the area, intending to block the fishermen who were charging forward out of nowhere. The entering guests turned to look, pointing and gossiping at the madly rushing fishermen, while even Miss Valente held her folding fan tightly, looking utterly baffled.
Dangerous! Extremely dangerous!
Only Lynch realized that these things were far from normal. Even if he wasn't their target, alarm bells were blaring frantically inside his soul. The strength of these four individuals was by no means inferior to the ghoul who had torn a train carriage apart with its bare hands. If he faced them head-on, he wouldn't stand a chance of survival.
Damn it, I'm standing right here! And this is a public place—what do you monsters think you're doing?!
His hair nearly stood on end, but he did not fall back. Instead, he quickly took a step sideways, shielding Miss Valente behind him while drawing his revolver and aiming it toward the fishermen.
“There is no need to be nervous, Mr. Levive.”
The theater manager's unhurried voice drifted over from the side.
“Under the gaze of the Yellow Sign, any act that disrupts the performance enjoyed by the King in Yellow will suffer the judgment of the King in Yellow.”
Huh? The Yellow Sign?
Lynch instinctively raised his head and looked toward the strange mark hanging high above the theater entrance.
Whether it was an illusion or not, the moment the four fishermen set foot on the top step of the theater stairs, the strange symbol suddenly radiated a faint yellow glow that remained strikingly clear even beneath the crimson moonlight.
At that instant, Lynch felt as if he were standing on a massive stage. The guests passing by around him transformed into countless surreal, distorted shadows dancing at his side, like innumerable actors portraying their own lives upon the stage.
And above the stage, amid the pervasive red mist, a gaze penetrated layer after layer of fog, crossing the boundary between illusion and reality. It shrouded the stage and converged directly upon the four fishermen.
“Ah!”
A series of bloodcurdling screams jolted Lynch out of his brief trance. Lynch snapped his gaze back to the fishermen, only to find that the four who had set foot on the top step had suddenly clutched their heads and collapsed. They writhed violently on the ground in convulsions, letting out agonizing, bloodcurdling screeches.
All four had blood-red eyes and contorted faces. Veins bulged beneath their skin like tree roots, and stark white teeth bared through their lips, smeared with blood and spittle in a sight that chilled the heart.
The surrounding guests all turned pale, scrambling backward for fear of catching some disease if they got too close. Meanwhile, several security guards and blue-uniformed officers from below the square finally closed in, quickly surrounding the four fishermen in a tight circle.
A few thuds echoed, and then the agonizing shrieks came to an abrupt halt.
Lynch, who was standing closest, saw everything with crystal clarity. The eyeballs of the four fishermen violently burst out of their sockets, and foul blood mixed with fragments of internal organs erupted from their mouths. The muscles on their faces contorted and warped until they ended up looking remarkably like fish heads.
Gag.
The eerie sight almost made the unlucky security guards and police officers who had rushed over throw up. They held their hands over their mouths, dry-heaving non-stop. It took them quite a while to regain their composure, suppressing their severe physical and psychological discomfort to clean up the corpses. The guests' view had been blocked, so they barely saw the shocking scene. After a flurry of whispers, seeing that the situation had been brought under control and assuming the fishermen had simply suffered a sudden bout of madness, they stopped paying attention, restored order, and resumed entering the theater.
Four powerful heteromorphs... just died like that?
For a moment, Lynch felt a sense of unreality. He and Miss Valente stared blankly at the theater manager beside them.
Only then did the two notice that the manager had pulled back his hood. Beneath it was a handsome, middle-aged gentleman, though his build was thin and his skin deathly pale, giving him the sinister appearance of a ghost.
The manager gave them a mysterious wink. Seeing that there were no other spectators nearby, he spread his hands and spoke in a low, slightly exaggerated cadence akin to an operatic recitative: “Sinners who disturb the King in Yellow's enjoyment of the performance must redeem themselves with their lives, offering an eternal performance in Night City with their souls. May their performance be splendid enough to please the great King in Yellow, so that they may find early release from their endless suffering.”
How ominous!
Seeing the man's stage-like gestures, Lynch and Miss Valente exchanged a look, both feeling a chill run down their spines. Still, the man's attitude seemed friendly enough, and with Cat Baron's guarantee, Lynch composed himself and asked as calmly as possible, “Who were those four?”
“Pay them no mind. They were merely a few heteromorphs from Innsmouth. The Great Old One residing in the deep ocean who favors them happens to be a mortal enemy of the King in Yellow whom I serve. The war between us has stretched from the Savage Age all the way to the present. They rarely come ashore, but for some reason, quite a few have flooded into Rhine City recently. Drawn by who-knows-what, they simply refuse to be driven away.”
Hmm? The news in the paper?
Lynch suddenly remembered. The morning before last, while reading the newspaper to Mrs. Maggie, he had seen a report: over the past few nights, suspicious individuals smelling strongly of fish, suspected to be fishermen, had frequently been spotted wandering near the docks.
Of course, that wasn't the main point. The main point was that someone had also witnessed these fishermen fighting a hundred-meter-long tentacle along the Lande River.
Recalling the first time he came here, when he caught a glimpse of tentacles beneath this manager's yellow robe, Lynch gave a dry laugh and asked, “A hundred meters?”
“Heh heh, it wasn't actually that long. The foolish populace exaggerates far too much.” The handsome middle-aged man was not angry; instead, he offered a smile. “Let us speak no more of them. Lady Hathaway mentioned yesterday that you might pay a visit, Mr. Lynch, and I have been waiting for some time. I wonder if you two came tonight merely to enjoy the show, or if you have questions you wish to ask?”
“We came this time hoping to learn some secret intelligence regarding the nobility.” As Lynch spoke, he stared at the other man's eerie slit pupils. A sudden thought struck him—recalling Countess Hathaway's assessment of this man and the evil god behind him, he decided not to hide anything at all. “Forget it, let's be direct. We're here for Flaming Red Lips.”
The smile at the corners of the middle-aged man's lips gradually faded, his face showing neither pleasure nor anger. After a moment, he turned around and pointed into the theater with a subtle, knowing smile.
“Please step inside, both of you. We shall speak within.”
Hss...
Looking at the symbol hanging high overhead, and thinking about the bodies that hadn't been fully cleared away yet, Lynch turned his gaze toward Miss Valente beside him. The noble lady, however, smiled with complete composure. Like the other gentlemen and ladies entering the venue, she gently took Lynch's arm, using her actions to express her stance.
Fine, then we'll just push ahead.
Rate on N.U.
