The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 441: Hope and Despair

Henry Streeter was tied to a chair.

Two feet, one arm.

He could move only one arm freely, which he used to drink water, smoke, and even scratch his itchy places - in front of him was a small round table for drinking tea, and opposite him sat the black-haired blind man.

The girl leaning against the wall crossed her arms and said nothing.

There's a lot of turquoise in this room: lampshades, draperies, bed sheets, china - even in the guest room you can tell that the former owners, the Street family, had a lot of taste.

The different shades of light and dark are matched with the secondary colors to create a unified and not boring arc.

Beautiful room with relaxing colors.

Of course, Mr. Henry Streeter could not feel this.

“Sir, I don’t think there is any hatred between us—” Now, he didn’t know Roland’s last name, and didn’t understand what kind of relationship there was between him and him.

Roland needed to explain this.

He slowly dropped the dice into the wooden cup, shaking it back and forth.

"I'm from London, Mr. Street," he said slowly. "My friend, a sculptor, has contracted the white mineral disease. So now you know why I'm here, don't you?"

He knocked on the wooden cup to stop the other party from apologizing.

"No, it doesn't have to be that way, sir. Perhaps the blame isn't entirely yours. You only commissioned the sale, but you didn't have anyone put the white ore in his mouth - it was just a 'coincidence of murder', the end of an unlucky fool."

Roland said.

"He was unlucky and used the material mixed with white clay."

"He's unlucky."

Roland slowly pulled out his pistol and showed the other party the bullets it was filled with.

"Then I'll take a chance with you."

He used the muzzle of the gun as a finger, pushing the wooden cup back and forth.

Henry took a deep breath and looked at the woman in the shadows: "Miss, I admit, I admit... I don't respect you very much. Maybe arrogance and alcohol have corrupted my mind..."

no answer.

"The Shelleys have been working with the Streeters, miss! Talk to your friend, will you?"

no answer.

"I can tell you a secret: about the white ore. Maybe we, Street and Shelley, can become closer..."

no answer.

He spoke faster and faster, and his eyes became more and more angry when he looked at Roland: "I'm afraid you don't understand the relationship between Street and Chloe, sir. You don't understand the gap between ritualists. I advise..."

no answer.

no answer.

Roland lowered his head and shook the dice in the wooden cup.

Wow...

Wow.

Some crisp, distant knocking sounds echoed in a dimension that only he could hear.

That is the sound of the hammer hitting the chisel and the chisel carving the stone.

Roland tilted his head and could even make out the small sound of stone chips falling to the ground and then bouncing slightly.

But he couldn't find Mr. Sara in the room.

Perhaps that artist will forever sleep where he should sleep, and with the eternal company of his final work, he should sleep peacefully.

Or perhaps, the connection between him and Sarah, the brief conversations during those few days, only left these scattered, varying degrees of knocking sounds in his increasingly rich and alienated soul.

They were not familiar with each other, like wild animals passing by each other in the forest, without even a greeting.

Just smell each other's scent.

"Take a gamble, Henry."

Bang!
"Damn it!" Henry clenched his fist with his only movable arm and slammed the table heavily. "I am the master of Street! Listen... Listen! Not only secrets... Even, no, I can share the shares of the mine with you... Sir, Miss, I can, as long as you let me go..."

"You take me out... Just let me go..."

"Street will always be a friend of the Shelley family... My sister won't give you shares, but I can..."

"I'll go to your friend's grave and confess, okay?"

He pleaded with Roland, and with the curly-haired girl who was silent and folded her arms in the shadows.

"White ore can not only be used as a substitute for coal, it is also a great gift that will change history!"

However, Roland simply pushed the cup toward his good hand.

"Take a gamble, sir."

"If you lose, I will shoot to avenge my friend," he said, "but if you win, leave the gun, and I will go to lunch with my friend - believe me, I have no interest in Streeter's family affairs, and I don't want to get involved."

"Whether you or your sister survives, the outcome will be the same."

These cold words were like a bucket of cold water poured over my head.

It completely extinguished the fire in Henry's heart.

There is no way.

Henry was silent for a long time.

The dry-mouthed man licked his lips and looked at the lonely dice in the wooden cup with a gloomy expression, "How do we bet?"

"Oh, that's easy."

Roland chuckled: "Six points, sir, you only shake it once - if it's three points, or less than three points..."

He made a shooting gesture and aimed it between Henry Streeter's eyes.

"Under six, over three, not only do you live, you get a fully loaded gun."

then.

"If you happen to roll a six," Roland rubbed his wrist, his smile growing, "not only the gun, sir, I will untie all the ropes for you."

Henry was unwilling to give up. He looked at Rose and made a final effort: "I apologize for my previous offense, Miss, and I am willing to compensate. If the Shelley family is willing to cooperate, I will sell some of my shares at a low price - why can't we talk it out like civilized people?"

"I don't know how much your friend means to you - but this cooperation may be worth hundreds of thousands or even millions of pounds!"

“That’s the future of a huge family!”

"Sir, Miss, do you really want to turn away this wealth?"

Roland yawned, shook the gun in his hand and pointed it at the man.

"Bet? Or..."

Henry stared at the wooden cup in silence, his brain turning faster than ever before—don’t gamble, or lose the bet and die now.

Betting, there is still a chance. To be able to travel with the Shelley family and make the decision on such a matter, this gentleman must be of extraordinary origin.

Then, they are likely to abide by the rules.

No, even if the man didn't keep his promise, he wouldn't wait until night to be hanged by Peggy Streeter.

He has a chance.

There was the faithful servant, there was William.

Those who have rituals.

He still has a chance, as long as night falls and his people are by his side.

—He was going to tear his ungrateful sister's limbs off...and these two's too.

There was a ferocious look in Henry's eyes.

and so.

He first had to find a way to save his own life from this madman's bullet.

He didn't need the gun, but he had to win.

Henry Streeter took a deep breath and held the cup carefully.

This inferior utensil used by the lower class, which had no right to appear on his dining table, became the bullet magazine that determined his fate at this moment.

Shake it.

bullet.

Crash…crash…

He's played this game too many times.

At banquets, clubs, special salons.

But never before have the stakes been so high.

Henry's shoulders felt a little sore and his wrists began to shake uncontrollably - he may have shaken for three minutes, maybe five, he couldn't count, and he couldn't stop.

The man in front of him with drooping black hair held his chin with his hand, facing towards him, as if he was enjoying a wonderful one-man show with his ears.

He can't die...

I can't die in this room, dying without knowing why.

He had to win, and then wait until nightfall for his men.

He will leave Inns Town first and wait for an opportunity...

It was only a temporary failure, Henry Streeter.

They didn't dare actually kill a knight, a master of the land, a true noble.

嗏

He has to win.

Gotta live.

So, it can’t be three points… or two points, or one point…

He wants to survive.

Survive...

More than three o'clock, more than three o'clock...

Henry Streeter rocked slowly, hard, and sweating.

It was as if the wooden cup was filled with ore, and the corpses clinked with every shake.

His chest was soaked with sweat and beads of sweat appeared on the tip of his nose.

Thirty seconds.

One minute.

Two minutes.

He was unwilling to give up the wooden cup easily, and shook it greedily and carefully, as if he could shake out a few immortals or an obedient dragon that could burn the two men to death.

This was his chance to survive, the choice that determined whether the bullet would go into his head or not.

'My destiny is in my hands' - at that moment, Henry Streeter experienced the meaning of this sentence firsthand.

Wow...

Wow.

Finally, the arms could no longer bear the soreness and swelling.

The wooden cup stopped.

The room was so quiet that the only sound was the heavy breathing of a dying beast.

His eyeballs were red and bulging outwards, his heart was beating violently, and his eyes kept scanning Roland and Rose's faces.

Finally, move towards the cup of destiny.

He used his little finger as a fulcrum, and gently pried open a corner of the magazine bit by bit. He ignored the pain of his other hand being tied by the rope, and tilted his head as far as possible to the side, slowly peeking into the gap between the round table and the wooden cup.

He wanted to open the rags as he usually did when joking with the girls, and then stuff the dice into their lapels while laughing wildly.

Or, express your dissatisfaction by throwing or smashing the dice cup.

He acted like this, but at this moment he didn't dare to do so.

It seemed that pushing the wooden cup open bit by bit with trepidation could change the number of the dice inside - he prayed, to the Father of All Things, and also to the other Nine Crowned Gods besides the Father of All Things.

His pale, sweaty face was almost touching the round table. His movements were more ridiculous than those of a circus performer, but he performed them as cautiously as walking on a tightrope.

He stared at the dots in the shadow in a daze.

After a few breaths, he suddenly raised the wooden cup and slammed it heavily on the carpet.

Then, burst into laughter!
Several bright lamps allowed the two remaining people in the room to see the face of the lone dice facing upwards:
six o'clock.

“I get everything.”

He gritted his teeth, tearing the humiliation and hatred in his mouth.

He stared at the black-haired man, watching him slowly open his dreamy golden eyes and stare quietly at the dice on the table.

In those playful eyes, Henry Streeter found mockery and the evil that overflowed like a spring.

The fire of hope that had just ignited in his heart suddenly went out, and he felt like he was falling into an abyss.

"I didn't say start."

The golden-eyed man smiled.

"Again."

(End of this chapter)