The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1041 Kingsley's Thoughts

"Since the disaster struck—animal carcasses, plague, and the constant deaths of infected people…"

If you connect all the recent cases, a tree will grow in your head.

As a detective, Kingsley would naturally not overlook any detail he considered important.

until today.

He had the opportunity to face Green Cohen directly.

After discovering that this person was 'nearly unconscious'...

Isn't this strange?

If he were a 'ritualist,' someone who knew magic, had a grudge against someone in London, or even someone born with a mental illness—he would intend to completely destroy London.

If he is.

Plague and rats are enough.

Like two sieves of different sizes.

What is the purpose of Green Cohen, or rather, the existence of 'infected' like Green Cohen? If chasing flesh and blood and devouring the lives in this city, the rat swarm itself can do the same.

These infected people who almost came back from the dead...

What is the meaning of their existence?
Kingsley didn't believe the ritualist capable of creating such a massive trap was any less intelligent than himself: even if he was exceptionally gifted, remarkably intelligent, and possessed a restrained elegance and captivating mind that few could discern...

That shadow hiding in the mist is certainly not stupid.

This is like how, in the eyes of the poor, the lowly, or citizens who are "designed" to never be able to rise above society, the gentlemen in the council aren't actually that smart, they're just "lucky"...

Frankly, most people are stupid.

They failed to realize that their 'consciousness' and 'thoughts' were merely weapons in the hands of a few, which could be changed at will and without limit.

Kingsley had the privilege of attending several gatherings with his father and learning about the horrors of these meat-eaters, the shadows in their hearts, and their indifference to life.

No.

That's not how you say it.

They love the land beneath their feet, this great country.

And, the citizens standing tall and proud under the imperial sun.

They loved them deeply.

—Those were livestock that belonged only to them and could be proud of their slave status.

Obedient, easy to control, and hardworking. Whether it's an enemy country, an enemy party, an artist, or a businessman—you can make them hate one today and another tomorrow.

What's so hard about this?
Please have mercy.

Who doesn't love these adorable people?
Which country can do without them? Without them, there would be no empire as it is today!
Kingsley had heard similar disgusting things before.

These people who never show their faces are not stupid... no, they are extremely clever in 'some ways'.

This is true for ordinary people.

Then.

The person who created this trap was a fool.

“So, someone like Green Cohen… isn’t an accident. Am I right, Mr. Cohen? You’re just a ‘flawed product’ that didn’t pass the second round of screening…”

The heels of leather shoes tapped lightly on the brick surface.

In an instant, it seemed as if the squeaking of the rats had disappeared.

"The plague is the first screening. Those who are not qualified leave; infection is the second screening. Those who cannot maintain their senses become communal with rats, livestock, and tools—Mr. Green Cohen, I bet that for every 'beast' like you, there must be a true 'sane one'..."

The heel paused.

The man slowly turned around under Florence's adoring gaze, his heavy gaze falling on the person in the room who should least be being looked at.

Little Leyton.

A mentally unstable child.

Florence suddenly remembered that when they entered the room, Kingsley's first words were: "This child is alive?"

This is not 'inability to speak'.

"The fact is, there are indeed patients who can survive the plague and consciously manipulate rat swarms—for three minutes."

A silver pocket watch slipped from Kingsley's sleeve and landed in the man's palm.

He glanced down at the time and corrected himself: "Three minutes and seventeen seconds of undisturbed time... Where did all the mice go, Mr. Layton?"

Florence covered her mouth in surprise.

Even so, she did not move her feet.

Little Layton won't do anything wrong.

is it?

“I fight for the Empire, soldiers. My mission is to protect you and get you out of here safely—and as far as I’m concerned, you don’t need to care about my identity.” Little Layton, his previous timidity gone, straightened his face, his eyes burning with a fire brighter than the torch Florence had held earlier.

He emerged from the shadows and looked up.

Florence saw that his youthful face was covered in beads of sweat.

He spoke with difficulty.

And it's getting harder and harder.

Something was constantly tearing at his soul.

Kingsley knew in his heart: like a candle in the dark.

If darkness is likened to a swarm of rats, then Leighton's struggle is not just against Green Cohen—but against the very purpose of this massive swarm.

they.

Humanity.

“I have to apologize, I shouldn’t have wasted those three minutes and seventeen seconds—it’s thirty-six seconds now.” Before the detective finished speaking, his cane was already aimed at the dial-sized hole in the door, at the face of the man who was about to stick his head in.

Flames erupted from the tip of the staff.

The bullet, spinning as it pierced flesh, failed to shatter the enemy's skull in the man's expectant gaze.

It was stuck in tight, constantly writhing flesh.

It only destroyed half of Green Cohen's face and one eye.

—The gunshot seemed to have triggered a switch on a pulley.

Someone opened the door, and with flashy dance steps, sat down in the seat that should have been Green Cohen's.

To Kingsley and Florence, the man outside the door, who had been frantic and constantly roaring, suddenly calmed down: he quietly scrutinized the two of them with his single eye—Kingsley, who was giving a long-winded speech.

Can't believe it.

Kingsley actually saw 'approval' in those distorted eyes.

His voice changed.

"There are many outstanding individuals among ordinary people..."

'Green Cohen' scrutinized him with a strange look, and slowly tore open the door with his bare hands—during which time, 'noise' seemed to disappear from the world.

Kingsley remained silent.

Just like Shandel Kratofer's assessment.

Intelligent people often perish because of their choices: they are too confident in themselves—especially after Kingsley became aware of Little Leighton's existence.

This is a power that mortals, and even the vast majority of those who practice low-level rituals, have never truly witnessed.

The power of horror.

Florence put his arm around Leighton, while Kingsley stood in front of them.

just now.

His cane was no match for him.

'Green Cohen' seemed uninterested in the 'perfectly crafted' creation he had sculpted. As he formally stepped into the unremarkable ward, the surrounding walls seemed to slowly and solemnly writhe like the smooth intestines of a hungry beast.

“Everyone’s body is made of flesh and blood. Unless this is a world made of bronze… what reason does a person have to leave his mother?”

'Green Cohen' tilted his head, his skull just barely grazing the walking stick held upright.

He stepped onto the sticky, viscous blanket of entrails and approached the expressionless detective—he could hear the other's fear, the dying, frantically swelling and contracting heart within his chest…

then.

He gently took Kingsley's walking stick and held it in his hand to examine it.

Where can I find a reason not to kill you?

(End of this chapter)