From Naruto onwards, I've become a dreamer.

Chapter 339 A Visit to Zarathustra, Offering a Gift to the Yellow King

"what--!!!"

In a luxurious hotel in Europe, on a soft and comfortable king-size bed, a man suddenly woke up from a dream.

Large beads of sweat, like rain, streamed down his sharply defined profile. His shoulder-length golden hair was soaked and clung messily to his face. His deep blue eyes, as if still unable to escape the fear of his dream, trembled clearly, revealing a profound terror.

The soft, milky-white pajamas were open at the neckline, revealing perfectly shaped pectoral muscles, showcasing the man's excellent physique, surpassing even the most fashionable models.

His innate noble temperament makes him stand out from the crowd, as if he were the master of the world, with elegance and unruliness.

However, at this moment, this man with an aristocratic air looked flustered and terrified.

It wasn't until the aromatherapy scent by the bedside that the man slowly snapped out of the terrifying scene in his dream, gasping for breath.

"Honey, what's wrong?" The woman lying next to the man was startled awake by the sudden scream. She rubbed her sleepy eyes and looked at the man beside her, who had a near-perfect face and body, with a puzzled expression. She asked, "You're sweating so much, did you have a nightmare?"

The man was silent for a moment, then slowly got up in his pajamas and said calmly, "We're done. You can go back now."

"Huh?" The woman paused for half a second upon hearing this, hesitated, looked out the window, and said, "But... it's still raining outside, darling."

The man went to the window, took a cigar from the tin box, cut off the end, lit it elegantly, and put it to his lips.

Through the huge floor-to-ceiling window, his sea-blue eyes narrowed as he gazed at the stormy weather outside. He exhaled a puff of smoke and slowly said, "I know, my dear Venus, but our relationship is over. You will get what you want when you go back."

"Thank you very much, Mr. McCallum."

The woman was not stupid; in fact, she was quite clever. After hearing the answer she wanted, she smiled and got out of bed: "It was an honor to spend the night with you. Please feel free to contact me if you need anything."

Bending down to pick up the clothes scattered on the floor, the woman, without any regard for the alluring, thin, and even slightly see-through sexy nightgown, strode lightly out of the room with her long legs.

Outside the door, someone had been waiting for a long time, escorting the woman away.

In the empty, luxurious room, McClane stood alone, gazing out the window in deep thought for a long time before returning to the living room and taking a bottle of vodka from the liquor cabinet.

This is a bottle of Red Label vodka from the Soviet era, which has been discontinued for a long time, but for someone of his status, getting a few bottles is not a problem.

McCallen poured the liquor into a glass, shook it, inhaled the invigorating aroma, and downed it in one gulp.

The fiery liquor surged down his throat and into his stomach, like a flame threatening to set him ablaze. McCallen closed his eyes, savoring the lingering aroma of the liquor in his mouth, but involuntarily, images of that tranquil and serene lake and the colossal 'figure' as majestic as a mountain range surfaced in his mind.

That blasphemous and bizarre song, seemingly from the distant ends of the stars, seemed to echo in his mind once again.

No, I can't think about it anymore!
McClane shook his head violently, trying to banish those horrific images from his mind.

Just then, the doorbell rang, interrupting his thoughts.

“Didn’t I tell you not to bother me?” McClane frowned slightly, his eyes clearly showing impatience, but the doorbell kept ringing. The jarring sound made him very uncomfortable, so he put down his wine glass and cigar, and slowly got up and walked to the door.

When the door was opened, the person standing outside was not the waiter as expected, but an old man with a tattered yellow robe, a withered body, and a full beard.

Yellow robes? Yellow robes again!
Nightmarish and terrifying images once again appeared in McCallum's mind.

The tattered yellow robe startled him so much that he involuntarily took a few steps back, his pupils suddenly contracting, and a look of fear and horror appeared on his otherwise perfect face.

But soon, McCallen snapped out of her fear, her azure pupils suddenly gleaming with a fiery, molten gold light: "It was you. You did all this?!"

“Good evening, Mr. McCullen.” The old man, wearing a tattered yellow robe, slowly removed his hood, revealing a long, thick beard and eyes as deep as a still, lifeless lake. His voice was weathered and hoarse as he said, “Or perhaps I should call you the King of the Sky and the Wind, the leader of the European Dragonblood Secret Party, the patriarch of the Gattuso family, Mr. Pompeii Gattuso.”

In an instant, the air seemed to freeze, and a glimmer of light, as restless as a thunderstorm, exploded in the narrow hotel corridor.

McCullen—no, it should be Pompeii Gattuso's eyes—were shimmering with a terrifying golden light, as if spewing forth blazing flames, his oppressive aura as powerful as a volcano: "Who exactly are you?"

The old man in the yellow robe was like a ghost; he suddenly disappeared from the spot and then reappeared in the room.

The old man glanced at the still-burning cigar and the glass of vodka, a mysterious smile spreading across his face. He then sat down on the sofa, looked at Pompeii Gattuso, and said calmly, "My name is Zarathustra, and I come from an ancient organization called the Secret Order."

Pompeii paused for half a second, looking at the old man who had suddenly barged into the room, his brows furrowed: "I have never heard of an organization called the Secret Order."

There are so many secrets in the world, aren't there?

'Zaratu' had a deep look in his eyes and said with a half-smile, "For example, the ancient city ruins you dreamed of, and that lake."

Upon hearing this, Pompeii Gattuso's pupils contracted sharply, and then anger flashed in his eyes as he said in a deep voice, "As expected, you were behind all of this!"

“You have misunderstood, Mr. Pompeii.”

Zarathustra smiled and said, “You should feel fortunate, for you are the ‘chosen one.’ For millennia, our secret order has been waiting for that one who can hear the voice of ‘Our Lord,’ and you are the one we have been searching for!”

Upon hearing this, Pompeii found it absurd and laughable, and in his anger, he laughed back, "So he's a madman! How utterly ridiculous!"

"Hehe, I knew you wouldn't believe it."

Zarathustra showed no sign of panic, smiling calmly as he said, "But it's alright. You've been chosen by 'My Lord,' and you'll soon believe it all. It's all a matter of fate."

After saying that, he took out an old, yellowed book from his tattered yellow robe and slowly placed it on the table.

"From the birth of humans and dragons to the present day, they have only multiplied for a mere tens of thousands of years."

Zarathustra slowly rose and walked past Pompeii, saying with a cryptic tone, "But only about 20,000 years of that time were meaningful. So who ruled this planet for the remaining tens of thousands of years, or even the millions of years before its birth?"

Pompeii glanced at him coldly and said, "Are you planning to give me a lesson on the ancient era?"

“No, of course not, Mr. Pompeii,” Zarathustra said with a smile. “I just want to tell you that the truth is sometimes more terrifying than you imagine.”

"And what is the truth you're referring to?"

Pompeii remained indifferent, still showing great disdain, and even found it ridiculous.

"If you want to find the 'truth,' then open that book."

Zarathustra's form slowly became transparent, and he said softly, "Knowing your own insignificance, knowing true greatness, then you will understand everything, return to the embrace of the Lord of the Deep Space, the Nameless One, the Great Old Ones, and embark on that ultimate path!"

Having said that, the old man vanished, as if he had never been there.

Apart from the black book on the desk in the room, whose pages rustled in the wind.

Pompeii stood there in silence for a few seconds, then slowly closed the door and went to the table. He intended to pick up the half-burnt cigar again, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the open black book with the Yellow King written in winding and twisted characters!

(End of this chapter)