"Ah——!!!"
In a luxurious hotel somewhere in Europe, a man suddenly jolted awake from his dream on a soft and comfortable king-sized bed.
Beads of sweat, large as raindrops, rolled down his sharply defined face. His long golden hair, damp and disheveled, clung to his skin. His deep blue eyes trembled, still unable to shake off the lingering fear from his nightmare.
His silky white sleepwear was slightly open at the chest, revealing perfectly sculpted muscles. Even top fashion models couldn't compare to his physique.
An innate nobility radiated from him, making him appear like the ruler of the world—elegant yet untamed.
But at this moment, that same noble-looking man wore an expression of fear and panic.
Only the faint scent of the bedside aromatherapy slowly pulled him back from the horrors of his dream. He gasped for air, trying to steady himself.
"Darling, what's wrong?"
Beside him, a woman, startled awake by his sudden scream, rubbed her drowsy eyes. Looking at the nearly perfect man beside her, she asked in confusion, "You're sweating so much… Did you have a nightmare?"
The man remained silent for a moment, then slowly got up, draping his robe over his shoulders. In a calm voice, he said, "We're done. You should leave."
"Huh?" The woman froze for half a second, hesitating as she glanced at the window. "But… it's still raining outside, darling."
The man walked over to the window, took a cigar from an iron case, clipped the end, and lit it with practiced elegance.
Through the massive floor-to-ceiling window, his ocean-blue eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed at the storm raging outside. He exhaled a puff of smoke and spoke slowly, "I know, my dear Venus. But our arrangement is over. You'll get what you wanted once you leave."
"Thank you very much, Mr. McAllen."
The woman wasn't foolish—she was, in fact, quite smart. Upon hearing the answer she wanted, she smiled and got out of bed.
"It was a pleasure spending the night with you. If you ever need me again, just call."
Bending down, she picked up the scattered clothes from the floor. Without the slightest care, the woman walked out of the room with graceful steps, her long legs moving effortlessly.
She wore a seductive, sheer nightgown—thin, almost translucent—yet she showed no concern.
Outside the door, someone had been waiting for a long time. They escorted the woman away.
Inside the spacious and luxurious room, McAllen stood alone. He gazed out the window in deep thought for a long time before finally turning back to the living room. He walked over to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of vodka.
It was a Red Label vodka from the Soviet era—long discontinued. But for someone of his status, obtaining a few bottles was hardly an issue.
Pouring the strong liquor into a glass, McAllen gave it a slight swirl. He inhaled the rising aroma, then tilted his head back and downed it in one gulp.
The fiery liquid burned down his throat, spreading warmth through his stomach, as if igniting his entire being. He closed his eyes, letting the lingering taste of alcohol settle on his tongue. But in the depths of his mind, an image surfaced—an eerily quiet, still lake.
And a colossal, mountain-like silhouette.
That strange, blasphemous hymn—like whispers from the edge of the stars—echoed once more in his mind.
No. He couldn't think about it. Not again.
McAllen shook his head violently, forcing the horrifying visions out of his mind.
Just then, the doorbell rang, abruptly pulling him back to reality.
"Didn't I say I wasn't to be disturbed?" McAllen frowned, irritation clear in his gaze. But the doorbell kept ringing—shrill, grating, making him uncomfortable.
Sighing, he set down his glass and cigar before walking toward the door.
He pulled it open—
But standing outside wasn't the hotel staff he expected.
It was an old man. His body was withered and frail, his face covered in a thick, unkempt beard. He wore a tattered yellow robe.
A yellow robe. Again.
Like a waking nightmare, horrifying images flooded McAllen's mind.
That ragged, frayed yellow robe—
His body tensed, and before he could stop himself, he staggered back a few steps. His pupils shrank. His perfectly sculpted face twisted in shock and fear.
But he recovered quickly. Shaking off the terror, his deep blue eyes ignited with a molten golden glow.
"You… It's you! This is your doing, isn't it?!"
The old man smiled.
"Good evening, Mr. McAllen."
The old man, clad in a tattered yellow robe, slowly removed his hood. His long, thick beard covered most of his face, and his deep eyes resembled a lightless lake. His voice, hoarse and aged, echoed through the narrow corridor:
"Or perhaps… I should call you the King of Sky and Wind, the leader of Europe's Hybrid Secret Party, and the head of the Gattuso family—Mr. Pompeii Gattuso."
For a brief moment, the air seemed to freeze. Sparks of lightning crackled in the confined hotel hallway, restless like an impending thunderstorm.
McAllen—no, Pompeii Gattuso—narrowed his eyes, golden light swirling within them like flames bursting forth. His aura surged like a volcano ready to erupt.
"Who… are you?"
The old man in the yellow robe vanished like a ghost, reappearing inside the room an instant later.
His gaze swept over the still-burning cigar and the glass of vodka on the table. With a mysterious smile, he seated himself on the sofa, looking directly at Pompeii Gattuso.
"You may call me Zaratul," he said indifferently. "I come from an ancient organization—the Secret Order."
Pompeii hesitated for half a second, his brows furrowing at the intruder in his room.
"I have never heard of any organization called the Secret Order."
"There are far too many secrets in this world, wouldn't you agree?"
Zaratul's deep eyes shimmered with an amused glint as he continued, "Like the ruins of that ancient city you've dreamed of… and that lake."
At those words, Pompeii's pupils shrank sharply. A flicker of anger flared in his gaze as his voice dropped into a cold growl.
"So… it was you behind all of this!"
"You misunderstand, Mr. Gattuso."
Zaratul smiled.
"In truth, you should consider yourself fortunate. You have been 'chosen.'
For thousands of years, we of the Secret Order have awaited the one who could hear the voice of 'Our Lord.'
And that person… is you."
Pompeii found it utterly absurd. He laughed in anger, his voice dripping with ridicule.
"A lunatic. How ridiculous."
"Heh. I expected you wouldn't believe me."
Zaratul remained unshaken, his expression serene.
"But that doesn't matter. Since you have been chosen by 'Our Lord,' you will soon understand.
This is fate."
With that, he reached into his tattered yellow robes and carefully placed an ancient, yellowed book onto the table.
"From the birth of humans and dragons until now, it has only been a mere tens of thousands of years."
Zaratul slowly stood up, walking past Pompeii, his tone carrying an indescribable meaning. "But among them, only about twenty thousand years truly mattered. So, in the remaining tens of thousands of years—or even the millions of years before that—who ruled this planet?"
Pompeii glanced at him coldly and said, "Are you planning to lecture me about ancient history?"
"No, of course not, Mr. Pompeii." Zaratul smiled. "I just want to tell you... the truth is sometimes far more terrifying than you think."
"And what truth are you referring to?"
Pompeii's expression remained indifferent, full of disdain, even finding it laughable.
"If you truly seek the 'truth,' then open that book."
Zaratul's figure gradually became transparent as he spoke faintly, "Know your own insignificance. Know what true greatness is. When the time comes, you will understand everything… You will return to the embrace of the Lord of the Starry Sky, the Nameless One, the Great Old Ones... and walk the ultimate path!"
With that, the old man's figure vanished, as if he had never been there.
The only thing left was the black leather book on the desk, its pages rustling as the wind flipped through them.
Pompeii stood in silence for a few seconds before slowly closing the door.
He approached the desk, intending to pick up his half-burnt cigar.
But from the corner of his eye, he saw the black leather book, its pages open.
On it, written in twisted, serpentine script—The King in Yellow!
********
Support me on my patreon and read upto 30 early chapters.
https://www.patreon.com/Unique_Writer