Fried Fish Brothers

After waiting a while for a table, Gordon and Vera finally found one and sat down.

"You order," Gordon said.

Vera was finally in her element.

"Two number nine combos, one large number nine combo, one number six combo with extra sauce..." Vera did not even need a menu.

The waiter held a clipboard and scribbled rapidly.

"I can't eat that much. Order less," Gordon reminded her.

"Oh, right. Forgot yours," Vera said. "Add a small portion of fried fish."

"...Actually, is fish still safe to eat these days?" Gordon asked skeptically. "The fish in the Blackwater River have been looking pretty grotesque lately."

"Fried Fish Brothers will be fine," Vera reassured him.

Gordon remained dubious.

Soon, the waiter brought over a tray.

[Fried fish. No fish can swim through the same river twice in its lifetime.]

[Peas. So green they look like they could still photosynthesize.]

Thinking of those strange fish, Gordon could not help cutting his fish open to inspect it.

He examined it for a long time before finally confirming that it did not glow, contained nothing resembling spirituality, and would be safe to eat.

Then Gordon speared a piece with his fork and boldly bit down...

The fried fish's crust cracked with a crunch. Fragrant fish melted in his mouth, releasing the delicious aroma of fish seasoned with salt and pepper!

So delicious!

So this was Fried Fish Brothers?

Gordon devoured the entire fish and instantly felt a wave of pleasure sweep through his whole body. It could not have felt better...

He leaned back, soothing his stomach.

Even though he had already eaten dinner, he did not feel the slightest bit sick of the food. He even wanted another fried fish.

"Praise Fried Fish Brothers," Vera said with a nod.

"Praise Fried Fish Brothers," Gordon replied solemnly.

This restaurant had officially made his list of must-eats in Lundenim.

Still craving more, Gordon waited for that blissful feeling to fade, then set the Living Water Compass on the table to check its condition.

Ever since they had entered the restaurant, it had behaved as though it had lost its mind.

First it pointed at the fish, then at Vera's sword, then at Gordon's face, as though all those things were conspiring together.

"Is it broken?" Vera asked reflexively.

"It isn't broken," Gordon mused. "It's thinking."

After spinning around twice more, it pointed at the fried fish on Vera's plate and stopped.

"Is there something wrong with the fish?" Gordon murmured.

His voice was quiet, yet the atmosphere in the restaurant still froze.

The waiters, the cooks, and the diners all gave Gordon loaded stares, as though his words had insulted every one of their mothers.

This was hallowed ground for fried fish. Some things simply could not be said!

Gordon instantly rephrased.

"No, this fried fish is so delicious that it's generated a supernatural pull." Gordon lifted Vera's plate with a reverent expression.

That's more like it. Everyone lowered their heads in satisfaction and resumed their devout appreciation of the food.

"So," Vera leaned closer, "does this thing really work?"

"Of course," Gordon explained. "It can point toward any spirituality with the same origin. The strange fish in the Blackwater River, the box, and the Deepclaw Demon are all connected. It might even point out cultists for us."

No sooner had he finished speaking than the compass turned another quarter circle and suddenly pointed toward a corner of the restaurant.

Gordon followed the needle with his eyes.

A man wearing a hat sat there, with a number nine fried fish combo in front of him as well.

The order in which he ate was strange. He seemed to be pretending to eat.

Something was very wrong.

The fellow had eaten his fries and his peas.

But he had not touched the fish! Its crisp, golden crust remained completely intact.

Gordon checked the compass again and confirmed that its needle was pointing steadily at the man.

Under Gordon's gaze, the man in the hat looked up.

They stared silently at each other for several seconds, with tables of diners between them.

Gordon speared a piece of fried fish from Vera's plate and gestured toward the man across the room.

"Eat up, brother. Why aren't you eating?"

The man in the hat nodded stiffly without a word.

His name was Thomas.

Thomas's mission was clear.

He had to follow, monitor, and record Gordon's movements, gather enough information, then report back to the Swimmer.

And now... it seemed his target had spotted him. The intelligence was off, too. There was no "wild dog" accompanying Gordon at all.

Thomas lowered his head and ignored Gordon.

Gordon immediately reported him to the waiter. "Sir, there's a customer here who hasn't eaten a single bite of fried fish. Please check on his appetite. Could he be ill?"

The waiter strode over to Thomas.

"I see you haven't eaten a single bite of fish." The waiter's tone was indistinguishable from an interrogation. "Does it taste bad?"

"It's very... very delicious."

"You haven't eaten any. How would you know it's delicious?"

"I... can tell from the smell."

"Please eat it." The waiter leaned forward. "Please enjoy the service at Fried Fish Brothers."

Everyone watched him silently.

You came to Fried Fish Brothers and won't eat fried fish? Are you here to cause trouble?

Thomas's expression turned exceptionally ugly.

He had immense confidence in his surveillance skills.

He was an expert among the Wet-Foot People, wearing a charm that suppressed his scent and sounds. He moved like a ghost and was proficient in stealth, tracking, and counter-surveillance. By all rights, there was no way he should have been discovered.

The only problem was...

As a believer, Thomas was forbidden in principle from eating fish.

Now even the cook had emerged from behind the counter.

The cook kept wiping the kitchen knife in his hand, silently applying pressure.

His apron bore the cheerful smiling faces of Fried Fish Brothers, and those smiles now looked particularly sinister.

"He ate the fries and peas but refuses to eat a single fish," Gordon added, twisting the knife. "That means he thinks our fried fish isn't even as tasty as fries and peas."

At that, everyone stared at Thomas.

Thomas swallowed, knowing he had to do something.

Despite himself, he picked up his knife and fork. The knife tip touched the fried fish's crust with a crisp crack.

In that instant... the guilt of sacrilege swept through Thomas's entire body.

It smelled so good! So unbelievably good!

I want to eat fish!

But the moment that thought surfaced, he began trembling violently, unable to stop. It was as though, in that instant, the sovereign beneath the Blackwater River had fixed him with a stare, his brothers and sisters who had become fish and shellfish were glaring at him, and even the Hermitage's commandments were interrogating his conscience.

His whole body shuddered.

"...I'm full." Thomas put down his knife and fork, stood up, and hurried away.

"Sir, you haven't touched your fish!" the waiter called.

"I'll go ask him for you." Gordon stood, pulled out a silver-pound note, and slapped it on the table. "Work out my bill. I'll come back for the change."

Before the waiter could react, the two of them had already dashed into the street.

Outside, the compass needle pointed steadily at the back of the man in the hat.

"Sir, please wait!" Gordon called. "It's nothing bad."

Thomas walked faster.

"You have an indescribably fascinating spiritual reaction." Gordon followed behind him. "I just need you to cooperate with a very brief observation. No blood samples, no dissection. Just a cup of tea. Let's find somewhere quiet to talk..."

The more Thomas listened to Gordon, the more sinister his words sounded.

"Cooperate with a very brief observation" = watch him until he revealed his true form.

"No blood samples" = start somewhere else.

"No dissection" = preserve an intact corpse.

"A cup of tea" = anesthesia.

"Let's find somewhere quiet to talk" = find a place to silence him for good.

Thomas broke into a cold sweat and walked faster and faster.

"Don't be nervous," Gordon said.

"I'm not nervous," Thomas finally spoke.

"Then why are you walking so fast?"

"I'm in a hurry."

"To get where?"

"Work."

"What kind of work?"

"The docks."

They reached the riverbank, where the night wind blew in from the Blackwater River.

Thomas was stuck. Gordon and Vera were still following him.

He had said he was going to work at the docks. The problem was, now that he was actually near the docks, he had no idea where to go.

There were indeed workers moving cargo nearby, but no one yelled at him for being late or called him over to help.

Thomas could only steel himself and stop beside the docks, facing the Blackwater River to admire the view.

Vera stood neither too close nor too far away. If Thomas tried to jump into the river and escape, she would pin him to the ground in an instant.

Gordon stood beside him and looked out as well.

"Does your job involve watching the river?" Gordon asked.

Thomas said nothing.

Gordon studied his profile. On closer inspection, he found that Thomas's skin was grayish white, and there were several unnatural fine folds behind his ears that opened and closed slightly with his breathing.

Thomas finally could not take it anymore. He turned, intending to duck into a narrow, unlit alley.

"That's a dead end," Vera said. "Good for murder. He wants to kill us. Easier than explaining his dock work."

"Reasonable," Gordon agreed. "Lots of people develop an urge to flee when faced with street interviews."

They followed him into the narrow, damp alley.

Thomas abruptly threw down his hat and turned to glare at Gordon and Vera.

Then water began pouring violently from his skin.

Watching Thomas, Gordon swiftly reached a conclusion.

A member of the Blackwater Hermitage.

Probably one of those so-called "Wet-Foot People."

Thomas opened his mouth. His entire face swelled grotesquely, octopus tentacles extended from his lower jaw, and murky vapor spewed between his teeth as he began reciting some indistinct prayer...

If he finished that prayer, this alley would become a watery prison!

The prayer had barely begun, and the vapor had only just taken shape.

Vera raised her hand. Her gray eyes turned crimson, and the power of Source Substance burst forth.

[Fate-Biting: Fated End]

"Make sure you don't die too quickly." There was actually a hint of pleasure in her voice.