The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 244 Ch.243 Strange Executor

The Golden Shell Tavern is very close to the port. As its location suggests, those who come here to have fun after work are not necessarily rich people.

As Fernandez led his men through the door, whistles blew.

To Shandel Kratov.

"What did I see? A woman!"

"It's your turn to play!"

"Hey! Miss, do you need help?"

Fernandez glanced at the crowded area, pushed aside a few people who were chatting with glasses of wine, and went straight to the counter.

A rusty red iron anchor was nailed to the waist-high wooden cabinet.

What's new is that there is no wine list, just a handwritten charcoal note on the wall indicating what's on offer tonight.

The counter was dirty, and Roland watched a cockroach crawl along the bar to the wine rack and disappear into the gap between two bottles.

"Outsiders?"

The bartender was a boy so young that he looked underage, and he was very skillful with his hands.

He poured three glasses of water and pushed them to Fernandez, then swept the table with a gray tablecloth, and took a look at Roland and Cinder: "Golden Shell never wears a top hat. You may have come to the wrong place."

"I'm looking for Ram."

Fernandez fished three irregular copper coins from his pocket and threw them into the empty cup on the counter.

Ding ding ding rang.

"Rum?" The bartender looked at the coin in the glass, stretched out his hand, and said hesitantly: "... We don't seem to have a name here--"

Then I touched another hand.

Roland covered the rim of the cup and stared at him with a smile.

Both sides were silent for a few seconds.

“…How do I know if you are debt collectors? Ram is a good man.” The young bartender did not seem willing to betray his customers and friends for a few pennies.

Until Roland let go and threw two more into the cup.

The bartender immediately picked up the glass, poured the coins into his palm, stuffed them into his trouser pocket, and his eyebrows jumped up and down: "You don't look like debt collectors!"

He looked around, opened the small door of the counter, and let the three people follow in.

After passing the wine rack and passing through the narrow kitchen occupied by cockroaches, there is a half-person-high wooden door that can be pushed and pulled.

It opens up to a double bedroom.

The stench of alcohol was overwhelming.

The bartender pursed his lips at the loud snoring, and Fernandez stepped over the scattered tissues and wine bottles on the ground and pulled the sleeping person up from the plank bed.

He was terrified when he woke up suddenly.

"—No! No no! I can pay it back tomorrow!!"

The middle-aged man was not tall and was struggling and pushing, but was knocked unconscious by Fernandez's two fists.

“Hey, you can’t be in my house—” the bartender yelled.

Fernandez ignored him and pulled the man up: "Ram Fiennes?"

After hearing the response, he didn't wait for him to answer and carried the person out.

Ram Fiennes.

The judge's judge.

one ring.

The sea breeze outside the pub on a winter night is enough to sober up a person wearing only a vest in a few seconds.

He huddled and asked Roland and Fernandez for their coats, but when no response came, he began to inquire about their purpose in a sly way.

Until he realized that these three people were not here to collect debts.

"I am the executive officer of the Inquisition! Do you know the Inquisition? The Holy Cross, the Holy Cross..." As he spoke, he found that Fernandez slowly unbuttoned his windbreaker and showed him a golden badge.

He looked as if his energy had been drained out. "…Ram Fiennes sends his regards."

He leaned against the alley next to the pub, his butt against the wall, and every wrinkle on his face was filled with flattery: "I haven't asked you yet, who are you——"

"Fernandez de Vinson, from London."

'London' - this name immediately made the eyes of the drunken man in the alley light up!
"London! Oh! I see! You're from the 'real' Inquisition!"

Roland leaned on his cane and asked curiously, "Does the Inquisition also have 'true' and 'false' cases?"

of course not.

"Of course!" Ram Fiennes blinked. Seeing Roland's youthful appearance, he probably guessed that he and the girl were both apprentices of the gentleman in front of him. "Let me tell you! The court in London is very different from the court in our small place..."

He poured out his grievances and answered Roland's questions, but the person he was actually attacking was Fernandez.

He said that he had been arrested and thrown into prison by local nobles on a trumped-up charge a few days ago, where he had been beaten and abused, and had just been released from that cruel hell today.

He said the church had not paid any salary for the past two months, and although the court had repaid the salary, the amount was much less.

He said a lot, unable to tell the truth from the lies, crying and begging Fernandez to forgive him, help him, and transfer him to London for work.

"David Cromwell says you owe two hundred pounds."

Fernandez's cold words interrupted his complaints.

Two hundred pounds.

"Can you tell me, Mr. Ram Fiennes, can you tell me if you are qualified to be an executive officer?"

"…Oh, of course I did, I even wrote you a reply!"

He didn't look like a harsh and cold cult hunter at all, and he wasn't even as good as the gang thugs Roland had seen - he had bones and flesh, and he stood up, but he was as soft, rotten and smelly as mud.

Eye-opener.

"I'm just so close, so close. Maybe one day I'll win and make it all back in a few tries..." The old, skinny man rubbed his hands and smiled, not feeling ashamed at all: "Sir, this month's salary hasn't been paid to me yet--"

"Because you don't have to take it anymore." Fernandez said solemnly: "The few executives in Bristol chose to transfer, but you didn't. Now I know why."

Because no one wants an 'executor' who owes hundreds of pounds and has bones as soft as a woman's waist.

What can it be used for?

A one-ring ritualist?
In Fernandez's opinion, he couldn't even beat the bartender just now.

“…Sir, we, no no, are the Inquisition. Isn’t it always like this?”

Ram Fiennes carefully studied Fernandez's expression and stammered his answer.

“I replied!”

"Yes, I replied. So why didn't we see you at the station?"

Because he had no intention of going at all.

If he hadn't been so drunk that he couldn't tell the time, he would have disappeared long ago.

"But, but we..."

"But we are still the same as before, just holding the title and getting the salary, but not having to do anything, right?" Fernandez suddenly approached and continued his words: "Really, Mr. Fiennes, you may not know what "shame" is, right?"

These words made the cowering man feel a little annoyed.

His voice became higher and sharper. "That's because of the Inquisition! You are from a big city, don't you know how people like us can survive?! Let me tell you! We can't survive at all!"

"The golden emblem does not bring fear, but only..."

"The Tribunal cannot protect the Executor! The person on the seat—" He panted. Although he was angry, he knew that there were some things he couldn't say: "…Anyway, since that person didn't do anything, why did you bother me?"

Ram Fiennes didn't start out this way.

He saw it with his own eyes, how his brothers and sisters were humiliated and received no support, and he felt disheartened.

Some people died, some people left.

Anyway, the person in the trial court can't do anything. If there is a real problem, don't we still have to rely on the Supervisory Bureau?
"It's your faith that has long lost its piety and firmness that should cause you trouble."

Fernandez's eyes were sharp.

(End of this chapter)