The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1008 Ch.1007 Sweeping
In the wake of that night, which was almost described as a massacre, the Church of Justice seemed to remain silent—Roland even paid special attention to the Inspectorate, including the inquisition's executive officers who were out of work in London.

No.

It seems they really did, as Theodore said, completely block the news.

The Thunderstorm Festival proceeded as scheduled, and the offerings were indeed replaced by a group of entirely new, impeccable criminals: in response to public skepticism, they emulated the Court of Judgment's act of grace by buying a small newspaper and, while promoting their doctrines in the paper, openly and covertly criticizing the inaction of other Crowned God sects.

The citizens have little interest in seeking redress for religion.

But I find it incredibly interesting to watch people argue in the newspapers.

For a while.

London newspapers are full of creative ideas:
Some displayed hand-cut images, some invited more well-known critics, or came up with even stranger and more annoying tricks: selling them as a package deal with milk or bread.

Buy milk and get a newspaper for free—everyone wants to take advantage of that.

Is the newspaper owner a fool?

Rather than being curious about the words in the newspaper, citizens were more interested in speculating when the newspaper would go out of business—it must be losing money every single day…right?

Roland would occasionally take walks near the Church of Justice and lead Harida on shopping trips.

But he didn't get a good opportunity to sneak in again and fulfill his promise to Theodore.

One morning.

A terrible disease swept through London.

Like a waterfall suddenly cascading down during a thunderstorm.

When people hear the thunder, the clouds have already accumulated enough rain to submerge a hundred continents—no, something even more sudden and unexpected.

Because there were no signs.

Many factory workers simply fell ill with a common cold.

But the next day.

More than a dozen factories have suspended operations.

Day three.

There were far fewer banquets in London's West End.

Then, on the fourth day...

There was nothing else to talk about in the newspapers except for this unknown epidemic that had suddenly swept through London.

Because of Florence's relationship with Kingsley, Rowland almost witnessed firsthand what the so-called 'cold' in the newspapers really meant:
He witnessed firsthand how a patient coughed up his lungs, desperately defecated on his hospital bed, was starving but unable to swallow anything, and swelled up like the buttocks of a woman who had just had sex.

He vomited blood.

They wailed day and night.

The vice dean of the medical school, the portly gentleman who got along well with Westwick, had several arguments with Florence—but when Williams Jenner made it clear that she was his new student, and perhaps the last one, he became a little more restrained in his words.

But it doesn't sound very good either.

He instructed the doctors and caregivers to cut wire and tie the patients' hands and feet. They then used mouth forceps to hold and open their mouths, making it easier to administer food daily through the standard medical cannula.

Then, they were given many drugs with frighteningly strong side effects.

According to Florence, he even organized more 'inquisitive' young doctors to dissect patients who were terminally ill but still breathing.

Cut them open.

To observe exactly where the disease is located in the body.

He ordered that no caregiver should inform the patients' families of what was happening in each bed without authorization, and that they should not contact the patients privately, give them any food other than medicine, alcohol and gruel—and even more so, they should not speak to these 'unconscious' patients or listen to their 'incoherent ramblings'.

'They're wailing! Sir!'

'I have ears, Miss Florence. What sick person doesn't wail? If you have time, could you please go back to your bedroom, pull up the covers, and have a good dream? I don't understand someone whose intellect is not up to par... Excuse me, time is of the essence.' Florence was very angry.

"Isn't this the very meaning of our existence? Caring for suffering and despairing patients. How could that man speak like that?! What is he trying to do?!"

At the "Magnifying Glass Detective Agency" (Roland insisted on emphasizing the name), Kingsley silently listened to Kingsley's complaints for half the morning.

And he showed absolutely no impatience.

This greatly surprised Harida, who was holding the 'clock'—this gentleman was not a patient man.

Roland leaned against the window, glancing downstairs every now and then.

There are hardly any people on the streets these past few days.

“Because of reputation, Florence,” Kingsley almost instantly saw through the 'vice dean's' intentions: “Betterles is the most famous medical school. Florence, what do you think every large-scale plague, every outbreak, means to you?”

"Of course, it's pain and disaster!"

“No, it’s an opportunity,” the detective said coldly.

If Bertram could act quickly and find a cure for this disease before the rest of London, or even the entire empire, could react, then the beneficiary would be—

Betelgeuse?

No.

He is the vice president of the Royal College of Physicians of Bethlehem.

Under his leadership, the citizens of London were able to overcome the disaster once again.

“If you don’t mind, I can be even more ‘vicious.’ For example, who spread this previously undiscovered disease?”

Florence sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Please, Kingsley."

Kingsley shrugged and said nothing more.

"...You need to be careful lately, Kingsley, Mr. Collins," Florence warned them anxiously, urging them to minimize contact with the sick—those who were swollen, vomiting blood, had bloodshot eyes, and smelled of decay.

At present, they are only certain that the disease is probably not transmitted through droplets.

As for the others…

“I don’t think you need to be so busy, Florence.”

Kingsley suggested that the other person should 'take a break'—at least avoid this most dangerous period: wait until the medical school has a way to treat it, or even figure out the source of the infection and the route of transmission...caregivers need to be in close contact with patients.

Florence felt a moment of anger upon hearing this.

She stared at the man with calm eyes and brows, staring at him for about ten breaths.

"I have never said anything bad about the detective."

Kingsley gave a mocking laugh: "Because detectives don't go up to a murderer and question him about why he killed someone before they've investigated everything—not even to find out if the person was carrying a dagger or a flintlock pistol."

The woman's eyebrows shot up, her voice sharp: "Yes, sir. You're quite something, now that the detective is looking down on people... Well, it's true, someone like you only sees his own path, walking along while mocking all the other paths in the world, isn't that right?"

Roland tapped his heel and interjected in an aria-like tone, “How I love you! Florence! My darling! I worry about you more than I worry about myself—Kingsley thought this, but couldn’t say it aloud. He was in agony, and for the twenty years after Florence’s death, every day felt like a tormenting hell—he regretted not being honest with his beloved, and he regretted…”

"I also regret having you as a friend." The voice wasn't the only thing that came from behind; Kingsley also threw a matchbox.

He went straight for Roland's head.

Florence blushed, stole a glance at the detective whose expression remained unchanged, and muttered softly, "Mr. Collins, how could you say I'd die..."

Roland silently turned around and spread his hands towards Kingsley: "Obviously, the point isn't—"

"Shut up, Roland."

(End of this chapter)