The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1043 Ch.1042 Mortal Saliva

Little Layton landed safely.

Of course it's safe and sound.

He was the empire's best spy, a sharp-edged soldier who moved freely through the smoke of war and is still alive and kicking today.

He had experienced too many wars. Righteous or unjust, victorious or defeated, tragic or even more tragic—he had more bullet holes in his heart than in his flesh: for a soldier, every real battle is like experiencing the end of the world.

As the poet questions in his poem:
Am I the person I truly want to be?

The young soldier often asked himself the same question.

In the torment of midnight or the approach of dawn.

Let's be frank.

He prefers to say goodbye—or farewell forever—to "hello."

His long and empty life needed a heroic exit to console his soul that had faced scorched earth.

Now is the time.

He felt no fear, only a surge of excitement, like a young man who had practiced Patton techniques for years and was eager to be ambushed by a few thugs while strolling with his lover—though the outcome was usually not good, before he knew the color of the razor blade and his own blood—it was definitely not blue…

Young people, or young gentlemen, often have these unrealistic heroic fantasies.

'I'm destined to do something big someday!'

They muttered the words Little Layton was currently babbling, much like a street constable who wasn't worried about a few girls chattering in a shop window, but was always wary of men huddled together silently exchanging glances—

Young Layton believed this was the time for him to ignite his soul.

"I am not just myself."

Kingsley pulled Florence much faster than the woman could run past him toward Little Leighton—she missed her target, and using inertia and gravity, she traced a perfect arc amidst the applause of the rats, before landing back in Kingsley's arms.

This delay has awakened a new instinct hidden in his blood in young Layton.

Just as Kingsley deduced.

He did indeed possess the power to manipulate the rats—one day, as he tossed and turned, in the direction of a whisper in his ear, in a cave where soft, red entrails were exposed through a molting wall, he discovered that he had mastered the method overnight without any instruction.

The rats were more than happy to respond to any of the 'children'...

This was the case before.

just now.

Little Leighton found it much more difficult.

Perhaps it was because of the man's command, or perhaps the swarm of rats, with their edges curling like ocean waves, was simply too enormous. When he raised his hands and pushed against an invisible force as if pushing against a wall, the wave before him only paused for a fleeting moment.

They quickly continued forward, crushing everything in their path like a millstone.

"No! Let me go! Kingsley! He's just a child—"

The detective, who resembled a robber, tightly covered the woman's mouth, bent down, scooped her up by her legs, and carried her in his arms. He moved with the speed of the wind—after he passed Edward Snow, who had stopped to wait, the other man followed.

Neither man spoke, letting the woman struggle and cry in Kingsley's arms.

She clearly knows what the best choice is, but reason and emotion rarely coexist.

Florence sobbed, clutching Kingsley's shirt and burying her head in the man's chest.

"The truly darkest moment always comes before dawn..."

Little Layton felt his blood boiling.

It did indeed boil.

It flowed down the boy's eyes, mouth, nostrils, and ears. It was a gel-like, firm fluid.

They hung precariously from his chin, making a hissing sound when they hit the ground.

soon.

Some rats have been 'turned' (recruited/turned).

They suddenly turned and rushed towards the waves behind them, one after another throwing themselves into the densely woven net of fire.

Every doctor could hear a clear, crisp sound, as if cartilage were popping in the mouth.

They were chewing on each other, devouring each other.

This was a battle between rats, and the only chance for a mortal to finally leave his saliva on the High Ring, on the face of this earthly deity. Little Layton didn't think about any of that.

He only kept repeating the word "persevere".

The empire needs him.

He had fulfilled his mission, and his life had come to an end—while his soldiers and children would continue to serve the ideals he held dear after his death…

The sun will forever shine on this fertile land.

"bring it on!"

The child's voice was torn apart.

A thousand needles pierced that soft, yet not yet hardened, throat.

Swelling cysts appeared on his skin, and some soft, tender, intimate, and delicate 'creatures' awakened in the heat, crawling along the tender texture of his skin.

He started to 'swell'.

He became like a grown man.

A few seconds.

He was taller than an adult man.

His neck forked like an old tree, forming 'horns'; the skin on his arms peeled off and then grew new skin repeatedly, peeling off again and again; he became lighter and lighter, as if he had grown several pairs of wings.

unconsciously.

Their pace of escape slowed.

Florence kept pleading with Kingsley to stop, even if it meant leaving her alone in the same spot…

As if on command, they all slowed down and turned around.

Looking towards that small dam.

Kingsley tried to calm his expression—

All the doctors present felt the same way.

These gentlemen rarely shed tears for anything: no matter how moving the play, how vivid the performers, or for novels, biographies, friends, wives, or lovers.
Even if that pitiful little face was wet with tears like half a pipeful of smoke, it wouldn't matter.

—In an era when newspapers glorified body hair and tough guys, they almost forgot the part of themselves that had been erased from their internal organs, the part that made them 'seem to be human too'.

They could, but they couldn't—ever since they stood up from their mother's embrace and stopped suckling at her innate sweetness, they turned their backs on each other, looked at each other's details like spies, and learned and imitated the more steadfast teachers generation after generation.

until today.

Or the timing of a volcanic eruption.

Only in these moments do they remember that they are just insignificant little things.

"Benefactor above—"

The young doctor murmured.

Williams Jenner shook off the arm that was supporting him, bowed to the distant waves, and performed a holy salute.

As if sensing something, Little Layton suddenly turned around.

Looking back at the doctors who had already escaped to safety.

His heels tapped together as he gave Kingsley a distant salute and turned back.

Without warning, it began to run towards the waves.

Barefoot, I waded through the rats.

The invisible storm that ignited around him blew away the ever-rising ash and foam, but soon, these fearless and endless monsters almost overwhelmed him.

His clear eyes gradually turned into two frosted glasses, shrouded in the long-standing mist of London.

In an instant, his colors became richer, like the passionate, hopeful, and idealistic person in Rubens's writing—like a warrior heading towards his ideal country, while misprinted words face the bewildered reader.

Rubens is long dead.

But the magnificent Baroque lives on.

(End of this chapter)