The Secret Code of Monsters.
Chapter 429: Words and Fire
Chapter 429 Ch.428 Words and Fire
Twenty minutes ago.
When the three went upstairs to rest.
Old Moore and Peggy were the only ones left in the pub.
They talked a little about Nina Moore, and about Henry Streeter, and how she had taken the three men to the mines and to the factory—and old Moore approved of that.
"I want you to make some great friends, good friends, real friends."
The man bent down to pick up the debris on the ground, put out two glasses, and poured whiskey.
"I have it from my private collection. It's not cheap." He said in a low voice, picked it up and drank it all in one gulp, stopping the girl who was about to say something: "I won't blame you, Peggy."
He said.
"At least in these years, I never called you "Street" - this proves that I don't regard you as the same as them."
The man stared at the girl with messy hair, the girl who was once called a 'wild girl', the girl who grew up under the care of the men and women of Inns Town.
Regardless of their status and shamelessness, they did watch her grow up.
"That's not your fault." Old Moore lowered his eyes and poured himself another glass: "I can't promise you not to do anything, Peggy. I want to be with my Nina all the time...but I can't find the opportunity."
"Those who were sick were quickly taken away from the cave - and those who worked regularly were not allowed to come into contact with us without permission..."
"You know, I did think about that."
He spoke silently and Peggy listened silently.
"I wish I could take a musket, break into Street's estate, and shoot that conscienceless bastard to death! Doesn't he know who made Street and Inns town prosperous?"
The man was holding the counter with one hand, looking very weak.
"…they were all damn miners."
"It wasn't Henry Streeter."
Old Moore was deflated, but his chest was still rising and falling violently: "...Your three friends are very good, Peggy. They are very good. You can tell at a glance that they are rich and have extraordinary backgrounds. You should make friends with them and become close to them..."
Peggy scratched her hair, lowered her head, and rolled her toes on the ground: "Then live in a big city?"
Old Moore suddenly turned his head and stared at her: "What else? Wait for your brother to kill you?"
"He wouldn't do that."
"The reason he doesn't do that is that he is not normal in the brain. You know those mysterious methods, you have talked to those weird people, and even you yourself..." Old Moore choked, and after a while, he bowed his head and apologized.
"No, that's who I am, Moore." Peggy didn't care: "My brother might want something. Maybe in the distant future, he wants to use me to complete some 'ritual' - that is also very far away, at least decades in the future."
"At least I can stay with everyone now."
"This is a good opportunity," Old Moore advised her, "Take advantage of Miss Shelley's affection for you and leave Inns Town with her. The farther away from here, the better. If the hell that the Father of All Things said really came to the world, I think it must be here."
Peggy didn't respond, but instead talked about the factory and the carriage, which Rose and Kingsley told him on the way.
Imply, or tell her explicitly.
“…What?! They actually want you…this…this is simply…” Old Moore said the word ‘simply’ several times, but then he realized that there was no negative word after ‘simply’.
Just--too good?
It's the only way to express it.
Because he remembered that Peggy's last name was Streeter.
If it is true as Kingsley said, then, as long as Henry Street is killed...
There was a stern look in old Moore's eyes.
But after a few breaths, it turned into dejection, emerging from the top of his head and blending with the sweat and sticky oil stains.
There was nothing he could do.
That Henry Streeter was a big shot.
Not only does he have guards and guns, but he also has what Peggy said—someone who can do tricks...
"If I came to your house in the middle of the night with a gun..."
"Sir." Peggy raised her head suddenly and finally got angry: "I was worried about this happening, so I didn't agree to do this! If you all die, what's the point of me staying in that empty house?"
"After the fire, you are the only relatives I have."
She spoke with sincerity and grabbed old Moore's wrist tightly. There was fire in her eyes and she almost coughed up blood from her throat to express her worry and anger: None of you are allowed to do such a thing.
The dry wrist fell limply.
Old Moore despaired at his inability to help the poor girl at all - but then he thought that he seemed to be powerless to do anything in his life.
Wife, daughter, brother.
Peggy Streeter.
The miners living in Innstown are forever powerless. This is a curse that is deeply engraved in their blood, giving birth to their offspring with trembling, and then continuing to spread endlessly in the blood of their descendants.
"I…"
crunch.
The door was pushed open.
Old Moore interrupted his words and turned around.
The man who pushed the door open was the man she had just dealt with the day before, Mr. William, whom Peggy called Black Nose.
He still looked arrogant, but now he had eyes not only on his chin but also on his neck, so he had to raise his head very high to see the two people talking at the bar.
He was wearing a neat suit, as if he was going to a party.
A pretentious pig.
When Old Moore heard his dissatisfied 'cough', his mood became even worse: "I'm afraid you don't come here to drink?" "Oh, of course." William was like a dancing cone, stepping carefully with his legs, for fear that some dirt in the pub would stain his originally pure white soles black - it would be even more ridiculous when the person who did this was fat.
"Yes, if I were still sober and had wisdom for one day, I would never come here to drink..."
He paused, with a sarcastic look on his face: "So you call this rotten water 'wine', incredible."
Old Moore shouted angrily: "Get out! You are not welcome here!"
"You'd better welcome me, otherwise, you'll miss a very rare opportunity," William touched his increasingly pregnant belly (which was full of wealth and knowledge), adjusted his bow tie, and walked around the bar with a ridiculous dance step.
He took out a letter sealed with wax.
"Ahem." He cleared his throat and said in a strange voice, "The real owner of the mine in Innstown, Baron Henry Streeter, invited his sister to attend the banquet today."
After saying that, he smiled mischievously and raised his two sparse eyebrows.
"It's a last-minute invitation, unfortunately."
This is undoubtedly an insult.
For people who really have status.
"Take your letter and get out!"
"Oh, if I were you, I should let the recipient, a truly respectable lady, make the decision - not you, a miner whose wife and daughter are dead..." He suddenly made a surprised expression: "I almost forgot, oh, your daughter is not dead yet."
Old Moore was about to take the rifle from under the counter and shoot him.
"Just leave it here." Peggy pressed his hand and looked at William.
The swollen spherical person with a black mole on the tip of his nose.
"I have received the letter, but I will not necessarily keep it, Mr. William."
The man raised his head even higher. "That's really rude, Miss Streeter. You should be with the real noble people and be taught by them, instead of hanging out with a lowly person who is not a - dying woman."
"Do you still remember who your relatives are?"
"All my relatives except the miners died in the fire, Mr. William." Peggy said coldly: "You don't have anything else to do, right?"
William snorted, and like a victorious rooster, he swept his eyes back and forth across Peggy and Old Moore's faces several times with contempt.
Then, he turned his feet, waist, shoulders and finally his head - after completing the turning movement, he left without looking back.
He even spat on his way out.
Peggy didn't breathe a sigh of relief until the sound of horse hooves faded away.
She looked at Moore, whose eyes were red, smiled, walked around the counter, and began to put away the chairs that were not placed properly: "Help me disassemble them, Moore."
Old Moore lowered his head and said nothing.
He was ashamed of his cowardice, for he was stopped by a girl and did not shoot the black-nosed man twice on the spot.
"Tear it apart. I have to know exactly what he said, sir... sir? Please don't tire me out any more."
The girl pretended to be relaxed, which made old Moore even more miserable.
He tore off the wax with rough hands, unfolded the letter inside, shook it, and was about to call Peggy and hand it to her -
Old Moore can't read.
But this moment.
He glanced over the tissue paper.
It was strange, as if I could understand these distorted "words" - if they could really be called words.
He understood.
He seemed to be able to read it, his eyelashes and lips trembling rapidly from time to time, in the dust floating in the tavern.
A flame surged in the blood.
Burning on his gums, scalp, and every dirty inch of his skin.
Like a torch.
All the internal organs are sparkling.
He is burning.
He could not hear the screams that were so close to him, could not feel the cold water being poured on his body, and had no idea who was slapping his clothes and charred flesh.
He felt that the tavern was not enough for him to maintain.
His temperature grew higher and higher, burning through the counter, the roof, and melting the blue or black bricks.
Then, destroy the entire tavern in one fell swoop.
He continued to burn, killing the land and whatever took root in it, spreading through the town.
The hides of beasts and howling flesh were fuel to make him leap and fly to dragons' lairs and kings' dominions - he would melt city walls and drive back soldiers, and burn his way into the most honorable jeweled and golden cup at the banquet.
It was drunk in one gulp by the unrivaled one.
He should light the highest crown of the world's dispatch, make the sky surrender, soften into syrup, and drip down to meet the earth.
'I am burning.'
he murmured.
When Roland and the other two rushed down, he was still maintaining his unrecognizable smile—or perhaps it was no longer a smile.
The man kneeled on the ground with his hands clasped together.
The corpse is like the regret of a pilgrim.
(End of this chapter)
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