The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1052 Ch.1051 Contamination and Puncture

Fear is like a lake that will never come to you on its own.

But it always has its mouth open.

Waiting for the ignorant to delve into it.

When Rose realized what had happened, her stumbling steps finally echoed with a plea amidst every inch of collapsing gravel—the longing that arises in any intelligent being on the verge of death.

I want to live.

She disregarded her shame, even though she could smell the stench of thick soup and sour bacon, even though the excrement flowed like the saliva from the mouth of a paralyzed patient who couldn't even move his head, soaking her all over—before today, she had never been so undignified in her entire life.

It's undignified to make someone never leave the house again.

But now.

She just wanted to carry that stench straight into James Shelley's study.

She would shamelessly lure the bad guys to old James's side, shouting "Save me!" or "I don't want to die!"—her despised or mocked heroes from storybooks, even the saint Delis, mentioned only briefly in the Book of Eden but revered by the ritualists—

Even her.

She used to be unable to bear even a single word of praise from the thief: 'Danger? I was born in danger.'

She was dismissive of the young men who went to their deaths, mocking their pitiful fate of being deeply humiliated. At one point, she tore apart the wailing hidden beneath her heavy skirt, her hand on her hip, and spoke eloquently, saying, 'If you don't want to, you should—'

The joys and sorrows of the world are like the occasional chimes of London's bells lately, enough for her to merely listen for a fleeting taste before offering a judgment that takes many times longer than the actual experience:

Not bad.

or.

Too ordinary.

She never believed that death would come before she turned eighty, and she looked down on those tearful, life-or-death faces—according to the inertia of fate, they would have to live and die for many more years.

She rarely ended her own life.

But I certainly don't think it's a big deal.

She even speculated that if she were a 'man,' she would probably be the bravest soldier on the battlefield—

Her adventurous blood, abundant in her bodily channels…

It felt like just a moment.

He vanished without a trace, pierced through the lower abdomen with a sharp blade.

Without Roland's protective "field," and without Harida's ability to constantly "leap," and without Sindel's holy water to timely seal the wounds—

When she, Lillian Rose Vancittat, all her skillful tricks that could manipulate mortals, even low-level ritualists, failed her…

She finally discovered it.

How fragile we are when faced with an irresistible force.

Death rested on her shoulder, breathing gently.

The sound of her breathing that she could hear.

'I am coming…'

He said.

Rose burst into tears uncontrollably, but no scream could escape her throat—her throat was tightly constricted, like a door firmly locking in the airflow. She couldn't scream; her teeth chattered and jagged in her mouth.

Alive...

I want…

Am I going to die?
The girl, experiencing fear so acutely for the first time in her life, did not realize that this was 'abnormal'—in fact, if she had a mind of her own, she would have run in the opposite direction.

She was afraid of death.

嗏

They don't want to harm LeBron James, right?

She can't remember those things now.

She didn't understand what a "Pleasure Apostle" was, or how wide a ritualist on the "flesh and blood" road to the Fourth Ring Road could widen the holes in a person's heart—she was led out of her deepest desires, like a bottomless well, which could never be satisfied.

What does she yearn for?
live.

Rose ran faster and faster, her mind unusually active. She paid no heed to the 'Little Roland' constantly tearing at her curls by her ears, nor to the strange but unstoppable mycelium. She even ignored the discharge from her lower abdomen, letting it sway and swing merrily from side to side.

She felt something constantly uplifting her spirits.

This fear of death, instead, crashed against her trembling soul, pushing her toward another cliff—madam, you should be able to fly, shouldn't you?
A girl wrapped in a stained dress burst into the old house with excitement. She swung her tail on her belly, nimbly leaping over the dissected corpses, dancing gracefully among the rats, stepping over the swollen carpet, and hopping up the steps with a thud, heading straight for the end of the corridor.

She saw James Shelley using a burning felt hat and nightgown as a 'wall'.

The other person also noticed her.

"James!"

Rose started crying again. She ran, ignoring the bites coming from her calves and ankles, even running through the flames, and crashing straight into old Shelley's arms.

The hole in her heart has not yet been filled.

She can never fill that void.

"James! I—"

At this time.

She then realized that she was still holding that beautifully patterned musket in her hand.

A strange object that could have fired a shot and perhaps even injured the enemy.

she…

What did she do along the way?
It was at this moment that an unbearable tearing pain came from my abdomen.

Rose's lips turned white instantly, and she curled up like an infant in her mother's arms, unable to control herself any longer, trembling as if addicted to the tincture.

Old Shelley silently pulled out the few drops of holy water from his bosom, bit off the cork with his teeth, and poured them onto Rose's wounds one by one: he washed the wounds and also his own large hands, holding the 'tubes' and slowly, with his fingers, putting them back in.

then.

Then he pulled out a few more and poured them into Rose's mouth.

The inherently opposing forces quickly dispelled the curse that did not belong to anyone.

He regained consciousness.

"Shhh."

Old Shelley gestured for the girl in his arms to be quiet. He carried her back to his study—the once spacious room was now covered in charred remains.

I can tell.

During the rat infestation, old Shelley set off several fires only to extinguish them.

just now.

They can only come from one direction: the direction of the door.

Tom had said many times that it was against the rules to build the study at the very end... This time, he had to admit defeat.

The old man wiped the blood off the girl's face with his thumb, then knelt on the carpet, trying to make sure she was settled.

"Tom...I didn't see him..."

Rose tried to sit up, but James pressed her shoulder down with his hand.

"Killing a 'Sixth Ring' member in a short time is no easy feat."

James Shelley shook his head.

Especially cult members in the cradle of flesh and blood.

He didn't know much about this path, but he knew to some extent that this group wasn't exactly 'honorable'—compared to the straightforward "Holy Flame" and "Iron Cavalry," or even the "Assassins" who almost never engaged in direct confrontation but whose lethality far surpassed the former two...

James' experience proved correct.

Although it is made of 'flesh and blood', this path is actually not good at direct combat at all.

In the words of some ritual practitioners, this is a 'feminine' path—they are better at 'bewitching' and 'nurturing' than fighting.

of course.

Most roads are for "women"—only iron cavalry and holy flames are the roads for tough guys.

This phrase circulated widely among the ritual practitioners until Enid Jutia was promoted to the eighth ring and became the presiding judge…

This statement then became, "Only the iron cavalry is the path for true heroes."

—It is said that many unknown young gentlemen had previously pursued Enid with great passion, believing that only they were worthy of this rose in the flames.

Later, they all believed that they would heal their broken leg before the others.

Therefore, we can conclude that comparison leads to disability.

(End of this chapter)