The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1095 Ch.1094 The Broken-Winged Bird
The villa resembled a human fruit that had naturally grown in the forest. When Theodore pushed open the door, a sweet smell mixed with a faint fishy odor wafted into his nostrils.

There are no gilded picture frames, no lampshades made of rolled metal, no soft tablecloths, and no walls cracked by time—Roland would bet that if Randolph saw this house, he would start trying to win over the ritualists of the Great Vortex.

They are truly outstanding natural architects.

The room was not lacking in furniture and small items for convenient living, but Roland saw almost nothing made entirely of metal—even the candlesticks were carved from a dead tree root that Roland had never seen before. Heaven knows which ritualist cultivated it, but it was probably very durable.

"...Upstairs, Mr. Collins."

Theodore sniffed lightly, his expression growing increasingly grim.

“Mr. Collins,” Roland tapped his cane, “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken the person you’re apologizing to.”

They climbed the steps that filled the living room. On the second floor—actually, there were only two rooms on the second floor.

One room was for Florian Westevik, and the other for Gilles Fonseca.

knock knock.

"Deloz?"

The door was tightly closed, and there was no sound of conversation inside.

"Mr. Westwick?"

Roland twisted the wooden handle, and it clicked.

The door opened.

The curtains woven from brown leaves were tightly closed, and the room was dark.

A candle is lit.

Deloz held Gilles's hand, half of his face hidden in shadow.

The sound of the door opening was quite loud.

When Roland and Theodore entered the cell, they naturally alerted the woman, Gilles Fonseca, who was bound to the bed with her hands and feet spread apart.

Her head was shaved, and she was dressed in a green robe, revealing bruises on her ankles and forearms.

Thorny vines wrapped around her body—like the walls of the prison cell, which, once they latched onto something, would extend their thorns to bind themselves to it.

“…Ms. Fonseca.”

Roland called the other person's name softly.

The woman on the bed stared at Roland with empty eyes.

“…Fernandez wants me to take you back to the courtroom.”

Fernandez.

The name seemed to sear the woman in chains. She suddenly became agitated, tearing at her hands and feet until they bled, her neck jutting upwards and forwards like a sinner about to be beheaded, reaching towards where Roland stood.

She screamed, her eyes no longer able to hold back the pent-up fear.

"No!! I don't know him... I don't know him!!"

"Never seen him...no...I've never seen him...I don't know him...I don't know him..."

She arrived at the police station like someone desperately needing to prove her innocence, practically wanting to kneel before the policeman with the wooden stick hanging from his waist—she pleaded, yearning for Roland to believe her, to believe the 'candor' of a tormented sinner—

She definitely wasn't lying.

She did not know Fernandez de Winson.

A sword that is forever pure, upright, and untainted.

Just as Horn said.

According to their investigation.

He may have tried everything, but he couldn't get that whore, that slut from the red-light district, to utter even a single insignificant name.

“I don’t know him! I don’t know him! You know that, don’t you?! Margaret! I don’t know any crows! I don’t know them! I’ve been with so many men! How could I not remember anyone who’s been to my bedroom—”

She gripped her sister's wrist tightly, her expression fierce and frightening, but she called out Margaret's name—the name of the little daisy.

Deloz kept his head down.

She had just been crying.

Now, the tears have dried.

"...As you can see, my sister has gone mad."

Deloz's eyes were frighteningly bright. In the room filled with plants, a fire, about to explode, burned within her—perhaps Theodore would never be able to look this girl in the eye again…

“How could this be…” The knight, who considered himself upright, turned his face away and stared at the corner of the room: there was a clump of ashes and half a shoe toe that had not been completely burned.

These were all Gilles Fonseca's personal belongings.

The walls, with their intricate patterns, were stained with fresh blood.

The fishy smell in the room was stronger than in the living room.

“How could this be?” Deloz asked softly, like a long, narrow icicle. “Good question, Mr. Thackeray.”

If you didn't know 'how this happened,' you wouldn't have rushed to Roland.

The knight, who was always faithful, broke his oath.

Now, how do you plan to compensate a girl who has lost her sister?
Not only not.

Theodore has not yet testified for Gilles Fonseca's 'purity'—his silence has turned torture and imprisonment into imprisonment and death... Perhaps between imprisonment and death, there will be an even more humiliating and unacceptable 'trial'.

He clenched his fist and turned toward the curtain woven from brown leaves.

Pale golden sunlight pierced through the gaps, illuminating his bulging, bluish-green veins, which were swollen with anger.

"Roland."

Roland went around to the other side of the bed, squatted down, and took Gilles' other hand, telling her to stop struggling and torturing herself.

"They can, can't they?"

"what?"

Deloz looked at her sister, who kept muttering, "I don't know her" and "I have other men."

“I said: They can do whatever they want, can't they?”

Deloz didn't need Roland's answer.

"With power and faith, one can do whatever one wants." This was the answer she witnessed firsthand. Compared to manipulating people's hearts, conspiracies, and any laws or rules—the very existence of the ritualists was a form of 'doing whatever one wanted'.

In the red-light district, at the "House of Fonseca," she heard of and saw many men who could "do whatever they wanted."

For example, those that Roland had escorted before.

But not one…

Placed before the ritual performers, they were all 'not conspicuous' at all.

"To be precise..."

"If you have the power, you can achieve anything."

Roland corrected Deloz's words, wiping away the dry, white stains from Fonseca's lips with his thumb. He suddenly felt as if he were back in the small county a year ago, in that dark room filled with excrement and blood.

In the deep, absurd darkness, someone else made the same choice.

Some mist slowly descended along the green veins that filled the room.

"Roland—"

"Roland—Roland—"

Someone was calling his name.

No.

It's not 'Roland'.

He seemed to hear something even more unfamiliar, as if it were fabricated...

what is that?
Roland tilted his ear and tucked it deeper into the mist.

'The God with the Bronze Eyes…'

'A spark of hope…'

'The door in the pupil...'

On that agonizing, lonely night, amidst the cawing of crows and howling of wolves, the woman curled up in bed murmured the names of her lover, her sister, and her silly 'daughters'—and then…

The calls grew clearer and clearer.

Roland finally heard him clearly.

'The candlelight at midnight, a path of dazzling light…'

'He was right at the door, laughing outside…'

'Don't knock. Never knock—He has heard your suffering…'

'Under hard labor…'

We couldn't help but look at Him too.

Unbeknownst to Theodore and Delos, the mist, like a glassblower's cheeks puffed out, puffed up and swarmed toward Roland's face.

In the haze.

He met a disheveled Gilles Fonseca.

Some green robes.

(End of this chapter)