The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 584: Music in the Soul
What happened to the master being lost again?

Randolph didn't bother to pay attention to Roland's gaze and led them to the manor in a hurry. This white castle by the sea was built horizontally and vertically, and it seemed that all the complicated and varied decorations were removed from the beginning of the design, and all the arcs were pulled into straight lines. Those with good eyesight could even see the main building from the door.

There were even few trees to block the view. At most there were some ankle-high lawns and a few wilted pots of flowers on the flower stands.

At a glance.

"Sir! Sir--" The butler quickly followed, busy explaining.

All the servants in the entire manor seemed to have dispersed, and many maids and younger servants could be seen along the way.

There is no need to say what they are doing.

This is true outside and inside as well.

There were servants rummaging around everywhere - before entering the building, Roland's toes suddenly paused.

main entrance.

This three-story building.

He seemed to see some strange "rings", "rings" like ripples, rippling in circles, passing through the stone wall, and gradually disappearing.

"Roland?"

Beatrice tugged on his finger furtively.

…………

……

"My father is ill, as I told you... Roland. There is something wrong with him, not very smart..."

In the room, Randolph leaned against the cupboard, his fingers sliding across the cupboard as he spoke, his face calm: "I can't tell you what disease it is, Edward said that many older people are prone to..."

Theresa led Beatrice to the third floor, while Roland and Randolph were on the second floor.

Roland propped himself up on the bed: "You told me before that it was a toxin in the body?"

"That's the other one." The man who had taken off his coat early was left with only a vest and shirt. He rolled up his sleeves and adjusted his disordered breathing: "Here, there is something wrong with him."

Randolph pointed to his head.

"I don't remember exactly when he started to forget things. He couldn't even remember what he had for lunch..."

Randolph pulled up a narrow stool, tore off the covering, and sat astride it.

"In fact, I have long sought help from doctors and ritualists from various sects..." Confusion swirled in those blue-purple eyes: "They said that perhaps only the ritualists from those two sects, those with special paths, could help my father..."

Randolph raised his head and faced Roland, saying calmly: "The ritualists who manipulate flesh and blood, and the children of disaster who cause plague when they pass by..."

"Is this why you have been so secretive all along?" The young man with golden eyes had no expression on his face, and spoke even slower than usual: "I am glad you didn't do that, Randolph."

Randolph laughed.

Whenever Roland made this kind of expression that made it impossible to tell whether he was happy or angry, it meant that he was very serious.

Having been with this dragon keeper for so long, Randolph has already figured out what kind of person he is.

"I didn't, Roland. I'm not a fool. Maybe the bad reputation of cults comes from themselves or from the orthodox religion. No one can tell for sure. But I only remember what my father said: when you really want something, when you want it madly, you should be alert to whether there are traps ahead..."

"He had come into contact with the executors when he was young, and he also warned me to stay away from the cultists."

Roland raised his eyebrows: "Old Mr. Taylor taught you how to identify cultists?"

"It's not really a 'judgment,'" Randolph shrugged. "He said that anything that makes you uncomfortable, disgusts you, makes you feel uncomfortable, disgusted or scared from the bottom of your heart - either he leaves or you leave, that's for sure."

"Mr. Taylor is a wise man," Roland couldn't help but sigh.

There is nothing wrong with this statement.

Go beyond the mysterious side and use your own mortal feelings to judge - to be honest, the accuracy is quite high.

Because the ritualists of the Cradle of Flesh and Blood are just so uncomfortable.

——Humans will not desecrate their own kind unless they are in desperate situations.

But that group of people didn't think so.

"So, I won't find a few cultists to turn the entire estate into a bloody hell... or worse just because of this disease."

If Randolph really did this, he probably wouldn't have known Roland in this way. The Taylor family would also be completely over in this generation.

"So, there's no cure?" Roland felt a little stuffy in the room, so he stood up and opened the window to let the wind in. "How amnesiac is he?"

Randolph lowered his head, and the breathing that was expanding his chest stopped for a moment. Then, a gloomy breath blew out of his mouth.

"He... doesn't remember who he is."

This invisible sound quickly expanded in the bedroom like a shadow, swallowing up the invited light.

Roland also fell silent.

There was chaos outside the gate, but it was as quiet as a dead city inside.

After a while, Roland rubbed his face and said, "You should have told me earlier, Randolph."

"Tell you? How could I not know? You are a doctor."

"If you had told me earlier, I could have come to visit Mr. Bellows Taylor earlier. Then, I could have become his 'son' earlier and inherited the Taylor family's wealth earlier. Do I look like Roland Taylor to you?"

"He doesn't remember it anyway, so why should I be better than you?"

Randolph rolled Gabe into a ball and hit Roland on the head.

"I thought you were going to comfort me!"

"I will come to comfort you after you are formally rejected by Miss Bronte."

Randolph: ...

Roland kneaded the ball of cloth, smiling so brightly that the sun seemed to shine upon him.

In fact, what Randolph needed was not comfort - maybe he needed it before he discovered the symptom. Now, so much time has passed, and this man who is as powerful as the Holy Flame in the business world does not really desire a hug or a sentence of "I understand your sadness".

What's more, Roland couldn't understand it.

He wished that his father would be resurrected on the spot, and then he would twist his head off bit by bit, and then resurrect again and twist it off again.

"If Yam doesn't remember who she is one day, I will tell her that she is the illegitimate daughter of the Father of All Things - you can also try and say that he is the uncle of the Father of All Things... It will be very interesting."

Randolph looked around, grabbed a box of matches from the cupboard, and pretended to smash it again.

"You blasphemer, that's my father."

"But you are also his son, my brother." Roland smiled and suddenly lowered his voice. There was always something brilliant in his golden amber eyes that shone in the sunlight: "It's not your fault, Randolph. Just like I told you before."

"Beatrice's illness is not your fault, and Mr. Bellows Taylor's illness is not your fault either."

"There is no Messiah in this world. Just like a son treats his father, in pain, struggle, and despair. Then, when he dies, he continues to live with an expressionless face—"

"You can't take all the sins on yourself and tear yourself to pieces."

“You are not the Messiah.”

"You are not qualified to endure these sufferings that you should not have to endure."

Roland ignored the emotion and pain in his eyes and continued to talk to himself, "Besides, the pain now is not that painful, Randolph. When we really invent a 'train' that can fly in the sky one day, you will be in more pain then."

"…A 'train' flying in the sky?" Randolph wondered.

What does this have to do with trains?
"Because then we can go to Heaven. You buy your ticket, find your seat, and when you get there, you find that Mr. Bellows Taylor is… not… there—"

Randolph: ...

Before Roland could finish his words, he fell on the bed laughing.

"Damn you, Roland. You have to do this, don't you?"

The sunlight shines through the green curtains into the peaceful bedroom.

The chaos and war around me gradually faded away in the laughter.

The businessman, who was laughing out of anger, stared angrily at the young man who was laughing endlessly, watching his gray headband rubbing against the sheets, and his black hair spreading casually like its owner, growing into slender branches on the light ivory silk.

'You are a very obnoxious fellow, Roland Collins.'

Randolph looked at his friend, fully armed, with flute, trumpet and snare drum on his back, tapping and singing in his tormented soul.

(End of this chapter)