The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 636: The Forgotten

Anyone who knows clearly knows the difference between mortals and ritualists.

Just as they understand that there is no key in their hands, there is no door to the sleeping world.

When you become an apprentice, your mentor will tell you: Power begins here, and the body ends here.

He said that the ritualists of the Crown God are different from those of non-Crown Gods: the existence of the Great Ritual allows these ritualists who walk on the most "correct" path to be more "correct" than others. They may have the strength of a lion, the fur of a bear, and the speed of a cheetah.

In addition to the power that the road itself gives to the suspension, different grand ceremonies also change the way different road ritualists act.

But that’s what’s so wonderful about the mysterious world.

When you completely get rid of your mentor and delve deep enough, you will find a different and more magical path than those "ordinary" ones:

At level one, they can be killed by bullets and blades.

At the eighth ring, they can still be killed by bullets and blades.

They are as fragile as young, swaying roots, requiring only the slightest effort - that's 'unique', isn't it?

How could the ritualist be so vulnerable?
What kind of power will be exchanged for the opposite of fragility?
You are more interested, constantly searching, trying to delve deeper into this path, and the gods sleeping at the end...

“That’s how I got started.”

The woman in front of the mirror was holding up a pair of gold-rimmed long-handled glasses and looking at the person in the mirror strangely.

The maid in the distance stared at her master's back without any manners, an invisible liquid emitting a greedy smell flowing through every orifice of her body.

“…Yes, my master.”

"Do not always say 'Yes, my lord,' my dear fellow."

Rosalind lowered her eyes, allowing the flesh and blood in her sight to return to normal after being distorted.

She turned around and rolled up her skirt.

The chestnut eyes were filled with a vitality that was never seen by outsiders.

The woman in the candlelight raised her head and walked around the bedroom holding her skirt.

She was dancing a very classical dance, a dance that had long gone out of style, humming a long tune in her throat that required a certain amount of patience to tell whether it was a good tune or not - she was very satisfied with the power in her gestures, the normal power that was almost the same as that of an ordinary person.

The heart beats normally, the sense of smell, taste, hearing, and vision—

“It’s wonderful to be alive.”

In the maid's eyes, her master is Rosalind.

A widowed woman who always wears a cap hanging down, and who has trapped herself in a black gauze net, a dancing mistress, an unclean person with bare knees, a young bird on a pattern whose beak pecks out pale rose-red petals, a romantic, old, lifeless or just beginning to be young—

The dancing figure was hazy and dreamy, with a vague outline in the maid's eyes.

She became short, with long hair down to her ankles, an innocent girl who had not yet had her bones cut open;

She is a fit farmer's wife, and when she stretches her arms to fix her hair, there is always a smell of cheese that has been exposed to the sun;

She is an elegant lady with a parrot nose, a noblewoman who wears a wig and uses a perfumed folding fan to keep away lice and odor.

The phantom was sometimes tall, sometimes short, sometimes fat, sometimes thin.

She is uncertain and vague. When one teaches you to be satisfied, she is one. If two teach you to be satisfied, she is two.

The maid was so fascinated that she almost grabbed the shadow and swallowed it whole.

She looked greedily, and when her hair was flying, she caught a glimpse of the clean and sunny little child - this was her master, a blood-related compatriot, a great beginning.

"I am not a statue."

Rosalind stopped dancing, and the girl, who was not even as tall as the fireplace, tiptoed and bent her knees, lifted her skirt and saluted.

She walked towards her, and then.

Gradually getting taller and thinner.

Rosalind Herbert Burns Field again.

"Mortals cannot question the gods, just as believers cannot question their masters - do I?"

Rosalind happily pulled the kneeling maid up from the carpet and took her around the room. She was sweating all over, and looked at the sweaty maid: "I will answer all your questions, and then we will build our own country."

She smiled sweetly, looking at the maid whose cheeks were flushed with excitement, and pushed her into her seat in a firm and authoritarian manner.

"Sit down and talk, my maid."

she says.

"So what do you want to know?"

The maid was still so excited that she couldn't calm down. Her voice was shaking: "I...I really am..."

"Of course, you and I." Rosalind was tired of dancing. She didn't care about etiquette and picked up the teacup and drank it all. "I have to thank you for your efforts and help. Without you, it would be difficult for me to wake up from that endless nightmare."

Even though she was prepared, the maid was still excited and wanted to kneel down, stand up, and give her master everything.

But she is not allowed to do that now.

Her blood wouldn't allow it.

"But, but why do you..." Perhaps it was Rosalind's repeated calls of "fellow countryman" or the intimacy she showed, the maid was no longer reserved: "Why not——"

"You won't kill the one who offended me?" Rosalind calmed down, sat next to the maid, and looked at her lovingly like a mother looking at her child: "This is not our way of doing things. What kind of path will such means lead to?"

“We are not a cult.”

She patiently taught, or inspired, the young child, giving her hope and strength - which was essentially the same thing.

"…I have held many hands tightly. We have the same ideals and pursuits. We share happiness and pain, and encourage each other to move forward—"

"My countrymen."

“We must move towards our goal and towards the future.”

She spoke calmly, but every word beat like a drum in the maid's heart.

"A noble lady with kleptomania is not our enemy. Her last name is Shelley, and she is the heiress of the Shelley family. It is better to make friends with a future female tycoon than to incur her anger, right?"

Rosalind stroked the maid's face and sighed softly as she looked at her more and more obsessed.

"We failed before, and we must never do it again - my dead compatriots taught me one thing."

She paused.

“Maybe it would be better to switch the order of some things.”

The maid nodded sincerely, "You are right, this is the right path... So, the people you invested in——"

"Yes, they all have the blood of the 'Original People'," Rosalind took back her hand, spread her five fingers, and admired her dyed nails: "I will gradually get in touch with these young new bloods who are still ignorant, and rebuild our organization..."

"Wait till then."

Rosalind smiled tenderly: "We will have our own land and country, and our blood is nobler than any other blood in the world."

A fanatical emotion spread across the maid's face: "I will always help you!"

As soon as she finished speaking, she seemed to have thought of something and was so shocked that she almost fell off the chair: "No! That's not right! Master!"

"How can you tell me these secrets!" she shouted anxiously: "You said that some secrets are not safe even in the mind——"

Rosalind didn't reply, but pulled out a soft card from her sleeve.

He pinched it between his fingers and flicked it.

(End of this chapter)