The Gaze of the King in Yellow

Four figures were approaching from behind, and with every step they took, the fishy stench intensified.

Their faces were dark, and they wore tattered, coarse cloth garments. Dirty white salt crystals had crusted onto the surfaces of their clothes in patches of black and white, giving them the appearance of the filthy, stained walls of a public restroom. The fabric was ragged and torn in places, revealing pale, sickly skin that seemed coated in a layer of translucent mucus, reflecting a cold light under the glow of the gas streetlamps.

The stench of fish, the harsh sun, salt, mucus, and waterlogged skin—these keywords immediately made Lynch think of fishermen from the sea.

However, this was merely a visual impression. When Lynch subconsciously let his thoughts wander and used his intuition to perceive them, a phantom silhouette appeared around the bodies of these fishermen.

Their image resembled the slave owner Davis, who had once vied with him for the Red Moon memory on the ship: they had fish heads and human bodies, and the skin beneath their clothes was covered in hideous scales. Several tentacles extended from the tears in their garments, writhing and waving in the air, radiating an aura of the eerie and the dangerous.

Not far from them, guests were entering the theater. These people were oblivious to the grotesque scene unfolding in Lynch's eyes. As they brushed past the fishermen, they merely covered their noses with expressions of disgust and stepped aside, completely unaware that those bizarre tentacles were writhing above their heads, dripping pungent, fishy mucus onto them.

A wave of fear and nausea welled up in his chest. Lynch was familiar with this sensation; it was the instinctive reaction to staring directly at filth.

Heaven above, this accursed intuition of mine—why must it show me such monstrous things again?

The contemplation lasted only a fleeting moment before Lynch suddenly felt a massive pressure sweeping toward him from the fishermen.

It was as if he were facing an irresistible, ferocious beast, and that beast seemed to be baring its bloodstained fangs directly at him.

No, it was not as if.

The tentacles behind the fishermen suddenly rose in unison into the air. The tips of the tentacles aimed toward the theater manager below, and their feet accelerated as they charged directly at him.

Theater security was already gathering from the surroundings, attempting to block the mysterious fishermen charging in. The entering guests turned their heads, pointing at the seemingly crazed fishermen. Even Miss Valente, looking puzzled and uncertain, tightened her grip on her folding fan.

Danger! Extreme danger.

Only Lynch realized that these were not normal beings. Even if they were not targeting him, his soul was screaming a frantic warning. The strength of these four individuals was no less than that of a ghoul capable of tearing apart a carriage with its bare hands. Once they clashed, he would have no chance of survival.

Damn it, I am still standing right here. And this is a public place—what do you monsters think you are doing?

His hair stood on end, but he did not retreat. Instead, he quickly shifted one step to the side, shielding Miss Valente, and drew his pistol, aiming it in the direction of the fishermen.

"There is no need to be nervous, Mr. Levive."

The theater manager's unhurried voice drifted over from beside him:

"Under the gaze of the Yellow Sign, any behavior that disrupts the King in Yellow's enjoyment of the performance will be sanctioned by the King in Yellow."

Hmm? The Yellow Sign?

Lynch instinctively looked up at the strange mark suspended above the theater entrance.

Perhaps it was an illusion, but the moment the four fishermen stepped onto the final stair of the theater, the strange mark suddenly emitted a dim, yellow light, which remained quite clear even under the crimson moonlight.

At that moment, Lynch felt as if he were standing on a massive stage. The guests passing by him transformed into countless bizarre, shifting shadows, twisting and dancing around him as if they were countless characters acting out their lives upon the stage.

And above the stage, within the swirling red fog, a gaze pierced through layers of mist and through the boundaries between fantasy and reality, shrouding the stage and fixating upon the four fishermen.

"Ah!"

Several successive screams snapped Lynch out of his momentary trance. Lynch quickly turned his gaze back to the fishermen and discovered that the four who had stepped onto the final stair had suddenly collapsed, clutching their heads. They writhed violently on the ground, twitching all over while letting out shrill, agonizing screams.

All four had bloodshot eyes and distorted features. The veins beneath their skin bulged like tree roots, and their white, ghastly teeth protruded from their lips. Their teeth were covered in blood and saliva, a sight that chilled the soul.

The surrounding guests turned pale and scrambled backward, terrified of being infected by some disease. Several security guards and the blue uniforms from the square finally surrounded them, quickly trapping the four fishermen in the center.

Bang, bang, bang. Then, the screaming came to an abrupt halt.

Lynch, being the closest, saw it clearly: the fishermen's eyeballs suddenly burst from their sockets, and foul blood mixed with fragments of viscera sprayed from their mouths. The muscles on their faces twisted and deformed, ultimately warping into the shape of fish heads.

Ugh.

The grotesque scene nearly made the unlucky security guards and police who had crowded close vomit. They covered their mouths, retching uncontrollably. It took them a long time to recover, and they forced themselves to endure the physiological and psychological discomfort to clear away the corpses. The guests' view was blocked, and they had barely seen the stimulating sight. After a flurry of whispers, seeing that the situation was under control and assuming the fishermen had simply gone mad, they ignored it and resumed their orderly entry.

Four powerful otherworldly beings, just like that, suddenly died?

For a moment, Lynch felt a sense of unreality. He and Miss Valente stood stunned, looking at the theater manager beside them.

Only then did the two notice that the manager's hood had been pulled back. Beneath the hood was a handsome middle-aged gentleman, though his build was gaunt and his skin was pale, as gloomy and spectral as a ghost.

The manager winked mysteriously at them. Seeing that there were no audience members nearby, he spread his arms and whispered in a slightly exaggerated, operatic tone: "Sinners who interfere with the King in Yellow's enjoyment of the performance must redeem their sins with their lives, offering an eternal performance with their souls in the City of Night. May their performance be splendid enough to please the great King in Yellow, and may they find release from their endless suffering soon."

Truly ominous!

Watching the man's stage-like performance, Lynch and Miss Valente exchanged a look, both feeling a chill. However, the man's attitude seemed friendly, and with the Count of the Black Cat vouching for him, Lynch steadied himself and asked as calmly as possible: "Who were those four?"

"Pay them no mind. They were merely a few otherworldly beings from Innsmouth. The Great Old One they serve, who slumbers in the deep sea, happens to be a mortal enemy of the King in Yellow whom I serve. The war between us and them has stretched from the Savage Age to this day. They rarely come ashore, but for some reason, many have suddenly flooded into Rhine recently. Who knows what attracted them? They are impossible to drive away."

Hmm? The news in the paper?

Lynch suddenly remembered that when he read the newspaper to Mrs. Maggie the morning before last, he had seen that people had been seeing suspicious individuals with a fishy stench, suspected to be fishermen, wandering the docks at night.

Of course, that was not the main point. The point was that others had also seen these fishermen fighting against hundred-meter-long tentacles along the Lande River.

Recalling the tentacles he had seen vaguely revealed beneath the manager's yellow robe when he first came here, Lynch asked with a dry laugh: "One hundred meters?"

"Heh, they are actually not that long; those foolish commoners are just too prone to exaggeration." The handsome middle-aged man did not get angry; instead, he smiled. "Let us not talk of them. Lady Hathaway mentioned yesterday that Mr. Lynch might visit, and I have been waiting for a long time. I wonder if you two have come merely to watch the performance, or if you have some questions?"

"We are here to learn some secret information regarding the nobility." As Lynch spoke, he stared into the man's eerie vertical pupils. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. Recalling Lady Hathaway's evaluation of him and the evil god he served, he decided not to hide it. "Forget it, I will be blunt. We are here for the Flaming Red Lips."

The smile on the middle-aged man's face gradually vanished, his expression unreadable. A moment later, he turned and gestured toward the theater with a smirk.

"The two of you, please enter. We shall talk inside."

Hiss...

Lynch looked at the mark hanging high above and thought of the corpses that had not yet been fully cleaned up. He turned his gaze to Miss Valente beside him. The noble lady, however, smiled calmly. Like the other gentlemen and ladies entering the theater, she gently tucked her arm into Lynch's, showing her stance through her actions.

Very well, then we shall charge in.