The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1105 Ch.1104 Wolves and Hands
If the house were empty, Theodore might still have a sliver of hope that Florian had found a good place to go—maybe he had really escaped and gone somewhere, never to be seen again.

Gilles Fonseca is here.

Before his eyes.

The animal companions of the "herd"...

The bird in the pocket's actions were like a heavy hammer, hammering the rivet of despair into Theodore's heart.

He whispered, "I won't hurt you," and cautiously approached, but inwardly he roared, "Why doesn't the world cherish me and treat me with such care?"

He shed tears of a tough guy in front of a crazy woman, no longer intending to force himself to pretend to be a 'weirdo' who only liked to shoot guns on horseback and smugly carry animal carcasses—yes, he could never stand by and watch a hunting dog bite a struggling kitten, chatting and smoking with people, listening to the animal's shrill cries before it was torn apart, and laughing like a chauvinist who had just given birth to a tough guy son.

There was nothing he could do.

He can't do that.

He was a loser, a freak despised by society and believers, a twisted and filthy adult deformed creature, a pink handkerchief embroidered with a deer hidden in a body of copper and iron.

He's really disappointing.

Just as Mr. Westwick always says:

'You always disappoint me. If you listened to me, you would never…'

Each time, he could only endure the pain and tears, listening to the teachings.

'It is precisely because I love you, and consider you my other half, that I say these things to you—asking you to do things you don't want to do, my love, my child, the believer. Theodore, if I didn't care about you, why wouldn't I have placed my gaze and demands on others?'

Theodore slowly squatted down.

He covered his face under Gilles Fonseca's questioning gaze.

Even a madman cannot cry openly in front of a woman.

These are not tears.

What flows out is a limited amount of tough masculinity, a masculine energy in the soul, an army they are born with from their mother's womb, and the predatory nature of carnivores.

A cold hand pressed against the back of his hand.

Theodore was stunned.

Gilles Fonseca lifted the thin blanket, bent down, and placed her hand on Theodore's hand.

She remained as naive as a child who hadn't grown up, her eyes devoid of any tenderness or kindness. Yet, she simply wanted to do it, her body subconsciously carrying on the habits left by her soul, comforting one suffering, lifeless existence after another.

Someone loves you.

Gilles Fonseca said calmly.

Theodore no longer had time to shed tears.

"Madam! Could it be—"

“Someone loves you, Prol. That’s not all, tomorrow is.”

Theodore's hope was extinguished.

He laughed self-deprecatingly, quickly wiping away the tears at the corners of his eyes, and then grasped the other person's hand in return.

"Yes, ma'am, tomorrow is everything. But when tomorrow comes..."

"Then, it will be the day after tomorrow."

Life is all in tomorrow, in the future.

Theodore silently picked up the wooden shoes from the ground and helped Fonseca put them on.

"Where are we going, Prol?"

"go home."

"Whose home?"

"Yours, Fonseca."

“I…I’m not Fonseca,” Gilles Fonseca shrank back and said timidly, “and I don’t know Devonson either.”

Theodore said, "No one will force you to know him anymore."

He made repeated assurances to Fonseca.

A light rain started falling outside the window sometime earlier.

Outside the open door.

The three green-robed men who had come with him along with the raindrops stared at him silently.

"It seems Lord Horn was right."

The cold, serpentine creatures rubbed against the thorns coiled around their wrists.

"You're just like Westevik..."

Trek took a step forward.

The lightning and thunder from the exploding dome froze three disappointed faces in London's ever-present mud.

“…Lord Horn made a mistake. Trek, you know what I’m talking about. You were his second-in-command, you were involved in everything—weren’t you?” Theodore draped the blanket over Gilles Fonseca once more.

this time.

He would rather die than leave, he would never let this fragile woman suffer any more. "What is 'all'?" The snake's outline gradually became clearer in the lightning. "What is 'wrong'? To be honest, Thackeray, I have repeatedly emphasized to Lord Horn that we shouldn't let you stubborn fools get away with this—now, you have a chance…"

He stopped in his tracks, and the two men in green robes immediately followed behind him.

"The last chance."

He said.

Green sap dripped from the drooping wrist. It fell into the yellowish-brown mud and reformed into the shape of thorny vines.

Slowly.

It weaves through the earth.

Not long.

Theodore could no longer leave... no, now he had nowhere to go.

A familiar force enveloped the area.

The technique that any ritual practitioner knows well: "field".

"Hand over Gilles Fonseca and repent for the crimes you committed with Westevik at the Autumn Festival... I personally suggest you choose another path. You know I don't like you, and neither do you. So, don't give me that chance."

He began to recite the purest and cleanest, the green child who walks in nature. The buzzing scripture had once captivated Theodore, who feared that he might not be able to find any trace of divine grace within it.

Now, all he finds is noise.

Theodore struggled to speak: "...I've always followed the rules, Trek. Florian too. We—"

“Follow the rules?” Trek chuckled. “You can’t be unaware of the purpose of that failed ritual in Westevik, Thackeray.”

This is a struggle that both sides are well aware of.

It's a life-or-death struggle.

Theodore loathed these things, but was held back by Florian, or...

His beloved Mr. Westwick.

He still agreed and cooperated.

Now, faced with Trek's questioning, he had nothing to say.

“…I did participate,” Theodore said, lowering his eyes, “but Lord Florian…Horn promised me he wouldn’t harm Lord Sean’s descendants…”

“Of course, of course. Lord Horn always keeps his promises,” Trek squinted. “But I didn’t promise you, Thackeray.”

Trek once believed that Theodore, the Green Knight, was a master of disguise and camouflage, and definitely one of the biggest obstacles on his and Lord Horn's path...

But today.

He understood completely.

That's stupid.

That's incredibly stupid.

He even naively believed in promises and vows, just like factory workers who would throw their entire lives into the rumbling machines and brass pipes for a pastor's promise that "your child will have the opportunity to be educated."

What in return?
An opportunity for his lovely, handsome child to be opened.

That's really interesting.

Who can cultivate such a person?
How does he survive in this world?

Yeah yeah.

But that's what the world needs.

They endured immense suffering so that they could enjoy the same happiness as Lord Horn.

"...At least let Ms. Fonseca leave."

This is Theodore's bottom line.

He retreated again and again, but he absolutely did not want this woman who had suffered so much to fall into the hands of Trek, or Horn, those Green Robes who defied the doctrine.

“I’m afraid that’s difficult, Thackeray… Oh, I suddenly remember… Charles… Charles? I remember that child’s name, Charles, don’t you?” Trek stared at him menacingly. “Without that child, I’ve never been able to figure out what body parts Lord Horn’s wolves prefer…”

"Let me tell you..."

"hand."

Rumble.

The rolling thunder burst open the darkness that gave birth to confusion.

It also illuminated every hard-to-discern corner of the room.

On the cabinet near the wall.

Flashes of lightning tore through the shadows.

A blurry figure was sitting on it, supporting himself with his hands and dangling his legs.

look at them.

"If I were the Eighth Ring, I would never have caused so much trouble."

(End of this chapter)