The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1125 (Ch.1124): The Crimson Tide Must Make a Choice
Old Hamilton couldn't believe it.

It was just a letter.

In just three days.

Then a 'black cat' came knocking—from black crows to black cats, this also represents the change in citizens' attitudes toward the 'executor': Londoners have very different attitudes toward crows and cats.

It was because of the executor wearing that 'clicking' instrument and going around saving people that old Hamilton was able to 'reluctantly' force himself to believe it once, repeatedly entrusting and maneuvering to find a way to send out the letter that might cost him his life.

It turned out that he was right.

—By the way.

Regardless of whether the church or any other organization openly or covertly smears the executors of the court, the citizens have their own eyes and ears—even if their minds are often manipulated by various messages from the government or various religious sects…

But seeing is believing.

seeing is believing.

Someone will always tell the truth.

The image of the 'executive officer' gradually changed in the eyes of the citizens.

From a group of ruthless monsters who would burn people to death if they were in a bad mood, to cold-faced thugs who are not emotionless but like to meddle in other people's business—this change is significant. However, since the arrival of the "supernatural" and the continuous decline of the government's credibility, most citizens have started to believe only what they see.

That's how Hamilton's letter came about.

"I…"

The middle-aged man rubbed his cheekbone.

He had been smiling for so long that he had forgotten how to genuinely express happiness.

“A whip and harsh words will not make little Hamilton hate you, sir. If it really comes to a ‘moment of choice,’ I’m afraid you will die in this house with her—which seems too arrogant to me…that’s how adults are, isn’t it?”

Roland smiled and pulled two cigars from his inner pocket.

I picked out a more recent one and handed it to the other person.

(He wanted to smoke a better one.)
"gentlemen?"

Old Hamilton dared not accept.

"I'm just... just a..."

"If you have a mouth, you should be able to learn to enjoy the wonderful smoke—isn't London a major producer of it?"

Roland invited him to sit by the bed, lit a long match, and taught him how to warm the cigar by breathing, keeping it warm at all times without overburning it and making it spicy and bitter.

The other person, like a silly child, did exactly as instructed, for a full five minutes, acting like an obedient fool.

Until he accidentally coughed, a mouthful of grayish-white mist spewed out intermittently from his throat and nostrils.

Roland laughed so hard he almost fell over.

“...That will take a lot of time, sir. Poor people don’t have that much time.”

Old Hamilton wore a bitter expression as he held the cigar as if it were Victoria's most treasured scepter, wishing he could kneel down to enjoy it.

“...Even the poor are not arrogant, sir.”

He sneakily slipped a sentence in between his words.

Roland shrugged: “If you weren’t so arrogant, you would have realized sooner that whips, foul language, or other ‘vicious’ methods cannot make Miss Hamilton ‘hate’ you—she is your daughter, not today’s daughter, or yesterday’s daughter.”

“Mr. Hamilton, she’s been your daughter since birth, and you’ve been her daughter for seven or eight years now. Is she a fool? I think you are the fool.”

Roland's words made old Hamilton's eyes widen.

"You think these things will make her hold a grudge and blame all her pain on 'I have a wicked father'—that he made me a prostitute, that he abused me, that he brought me this terrible life..."

Roland stared at the slowly rising smoke, his voice like a soft, sharp blade, carried by the airflow into old Hamilton's lungs.

Contracting.

The cutting made him restless.

"But she's your daughter. What child doesn't know what their parents' 'true' nature is? A child may be a bit slow, but not stupid. There's a difference between a slow learner and a fool, right?"

These slightly 'cute' words left old Hamilton with a wry smile.

He turned to look at Roland and, for the first time, uttered a word of 'disrespect':

“You are different from others, sir.”

“Of course,” Roland rolled his eyes. “You are different too, Mr. Hamilton.”

When Roland asked the girl when the whip marks appeared and how long they lasted, in order to determine the intervals between old Hamilton's whippings of her.

The girl's words undoubtedly solved the mystery.

Only Roland and Sender were present and knew the truth.

Because they are executives.

The Enforcers’ enemies (at least in the past) are the cultists of the Cradle of Flesh and Blood—and these cultists, like the Enforcers’ ‘official duties,’ also have their own ‘rituals.’

Between the two towers, the Crimson Tide must make a choice.

The cultists in the Cradle of Flesh and Blood must experience the pleasures and pains of flesh and blood, and they cannot have anything more important in their lives than their faith in the Bottomless Lake and the Mother Goddess.

For example, family members. A choice.

This is what they have to face.

Just like Roland once faced a test of 'courage'.

"Two survive, one gets to live, right?"

Along with the nutty aroma of the smoke, Roland's voice was light and airy.

Old Hamilton remained silent, the thick fog almost completely obscuring his often bewildered face.

Perhaps he will find a moment of peace only when he is enveloped in smoke.

a long time.

"...It is 'her choice'."

The hoarse voice tore open the valves of her heart.

Sometimes, the truth is hidden in a lie.

Little Hamilton had contracted the plague, that's no lie—but she miraculously 'healed' during the disaster and regained the power to control rats.

This was originally a good thing.

But after the 'rat extermination campaign' began, these 'apprentices' were no longer driven by monsters, and their own strength was not even as good as that of an underage young man—apprentices were just apprentices, and those who couldn't swim would drown if they went into the lake.

The Savi Brotherhood approached the father and daughter.

Faced with the choice between sword and fire, they had no other option.

"them…"

The person in the smoke spoke in a trembling voice.

"They wanted her to 'experience pleasure to the fullest'... saying it was a more magical ritual that would allow my girl to go further..."

Roland heard a mumbled curse.

"Is the plague also a clever idea devised by the Savi Brotherhood?"

"No, sir."

Old Hamilton said softly.

"That's what I came up with."

He fanned away the smoke, revealing a pair of bloodshot red eyes.

He cried loudly, but made no sound.

Tough guy education.

“At first, it was my idea, sir,” the middle-aged man said, laughing through his tears while holding up his cigar—a precious item he might never be able to afford in his lifetime—" “We can’t escape, and we can’t defeat bullets and blades…”

then.

Old Hamilton came up with a solution.

He claimed that his daughter had been infected with the 'new plague,' and at the same time, he gave the 'leader' of this street a good idea: to use the 'plague that won't kill' to attract wealthy, adventurous, and curious gentlemen.

His selfish motives were very simple.

First of all.

Most of the guests will be people who have not been infected with the plague.

Then his daughter would no longer be reinfected—he wasn't sure if she would, but he had to avoid it.

Second.

Those who could afford the price were mostly gentlemen from the West End.

These people weren't much 'gentler' than the people of the East End, but for the sake of appearances, they wouldn't do anything unacceptable to their daughters—old Hamilton even had 'insurance' in place.

He used a whip or verbally abused his daughter in public.

This worked very well.

"Some guests even beat me up, saying I wasn't a good father..."

His method is brilliant.

Many guests were moved by sympathy, and some even did not 'exercise their rights' at all, but simply threw down a lot of money and chatted with little Hamilton for half an afternoon.

He also bought her a lot of candy and new clothes.

“I am not a good father, sir.”

He covered his face and began to sob uncontrollably.

"But she has to hate me...she has to live..."

The Crimson Tide must make a choice.

(End of this chapter)