The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1001: Betles
The long cone and the nurse were doomed to remain in that building forever.

As the sun awoke, the couple at the feast melted away like a thin layer of winter snow - just like the mole's captain who remained forever in the dark, with only his code name immortalized in the memory of the living.

The mole had a runny nose and tears that flowed unrestrainedly like the white blood of an unrestrained young man in the shortest and most passionate emotions and youth, winding among the tablecloths that symbolized purity and whiteness and the tableware that reflected the candlelight.

He ate up all the food he could see on the table, until he was about to vomit, and he ripped open his belly and crawled out, bloated like a balloon on the verge of bursting.

He didn't say anything either, just ate and drank, as if he wanted to pay tribute to the noble soul in this way.

Then, he burped.

Put down your knife and fork.

Pick up the leather bag on the table.

The soles of my feet seemed to be glued to the floor.

"…Go away, my friend."

The long cone, who had been silent throughout the entire banquet, suddenly spoke, his voice as warm as the hot air in the room: "... This is our destiny, Mole. Realize your own importance, endure the pain, and complete your mission - in the future, perhaps you will meet more long cones, nurses, and crows..."

He gently put down the fork and wiped his fingertips with his handkerchief.

"I hope you can still fill your stomach and disappear from their sight without looking back... Tell me you can do it."

His tall, thin shadow rose from the chair and swayed in the candlelight.

"tell me."

He repeated.

"You can do it."

The Mole rubbed his eyes, lowered his head and replied: "I can... I can do it."

"I can't hear your answer, Mole."

"I can! Damn... Damn! You are not my captain!" He was angry and sad, but saw the long-faced man and the woman coming to him, holding his shoulders, turning around, and pushing him into the darkness.

"Go quickly..."

"Go, Mole. Remember our agreement... complete your mission... every time in the future."

He was thrust back into darkness.

This time.

Without the crow or his sharpshooter captain to guide him, he had to walk the rest of the way alone.

Every road.

The Mole hugged the leather bag tightly to his chest, lowered his head, and with each of his toes shouting in unison, he crawled forward on the cold, dark floor.

He was mumbling something inaudible, mostly words to cheer himself up.

There is boiling magma under your feet and in the darkness there are pairs of grinning faces and prying eyes.

He could not remember the glorious empire, the lofty ideals, or the Majesty who had high hopes for him.

He just needs to live.

Live and fulfill the wishes of those brilliant souls.

'I can…'

'Mole can!'

He didn't know how long it took him until his big toe kicked the hidden place where he was hiding - the boy smiled in pain.

He lifted the blanket with almost the speed of a real mole, jumped up with the paper bag in his arms, and crawled into the man-made cave shelter.

He adjusted his posture, turned sideways, covered his head, and held the information tightly.

He said I succeeded...

Captain, long cone, nurse.

He kept repeating this at the stroke of midnight until he was led away by the god of sleep to his kingdom.

…………

……

"Mole, Cone, Crow. You don't seem to be very good at naming things."

In another room.

The three spies who survived the tragedy met again.

Kingsley scowled, trying to kill his asshole friend with his eyes—Longcone? Why did he have to have such a code name?

Florence smiled softly and said, "I think my code name is good." Kingsley was immediately discouraged and muttered, "I just don't like this..."

Roland stiffened his neck and said that his name was still Crow, and Kingsley immediately hit back, saying that was the common name used by the public, and that just because you named yourself Crow, you couldn't give him the nickname "Long Cone" -

Florence was used to it.

The wisdom of these two gentlemen fluctuates.

It is high in times of crisis.

Other than that, it's low.

Especially in some trivial matters that she thinks are insignificant, they, or men, seem to have an extremely strong desire to win - women never easily initiate an open war.

Unless they were at a party and met a woman who was dressed like them (both parties thought so).

"Alright, you two, there are other people here."

Florence touched Kingsley's arm in a disapproving way.

The fourth person on the scene smiled and said, "I don't mind, and I'm willing to listen for a while longer."

There is a globe on the desk.

Two sculptures, as high as a forearm and as wide as three oil lamps: a heart and human lungs.

The bookshelf behind the man was tall and thick, similar to Beatrice's wallet in Roland's imagination - it was stuffed to the brim.

He squeezed a monocle, its silver chain gleaming.

He was wearing a high-collared shirt, had an oval face, was beardless, and had brown hair in the center of his head that faded in all directions, revealing a smart, reflective landmass.

A man in his fifties.

It’s not considered old, but it can’t be considered young either.

His name is Williams Jenner.

President of the Royal College of Physicians of Beitles.

He was also the only person who sent Florence an invitation letter instead of an interview letter after Amelia's "Paradise" case was published in the newspaper - by the way, there were too many reporters who wanted to interview Kingsley and Florence, the only two people whose names were exposed in the case.

Unfortunately, the former spends his days hiding in his own detective agency, competing wits with his pet dog who eats lampshades (and has recently become interested in indoor shoes), while the latter lives in a hotel near the courtroom - although the reporters are bold enough, they do not want to try out the difference between humans and candles themselves.

Mr. Williams Jenner.

He extended an invitation to Florence: just an invitation, mind you.

He noticed some of Florence's 'inappropriate' remarks, and noticed that she did not use the Paradise case to make money, throw herself on the brightest and most hideous dining table, and let the wealthy and bored gentlemen and ladies dismember her past and chew on her soul and flesh.

She said only a few words, disappeared in a hurry, and did not appear in the newspapers for a long time.

This made Williams-Jenner interested in her.

Some of Florence's remarks coincided with his own ideas.

He wanted to meet this girl.

then.

This led to today's 'test': in five days, a crazy boy, who could only be locked up with an iron chain and force-fed with an instrument, was forced to walk out of the room by himself, eat, and then return to his little bed.

This is a test.

Florence didn't bargain, she just asked if she could get some off-field help.

The result is.

She finished it beautifully.

And they exceeded their targets—they even covered themselves with blankets.

This old Jenner was more interested in her.

Florence.

This woman is different from most of the current caregivers and even doctors: in terms of treating "patients", even if it is a crazy child who is like an animal and has lost his family, she can patiently chat with him all night long and listen to him talk about his "mission", the noble and great "goal" -

She also has a pair of good friends.

Two gentlemen who were happy to 'play around' with her.

"I think we can have a good talk...about ideals and Betles," said the dean.

The eyes behind the lenses observed the woman who was rubbing her palms, looking a little embarrassed.

(End of this chapter)