The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1025 (Ch.1024) - Discovery
There are only three red markers.

Factories in the East and South districts, and streets near the Justice Church.

These three areas have a high density of wells, so it's not uncommon for public drinking water to be contaminated—especially since uncultured people often urinate nearby, and there are often babies or other undeveloped 'things' in the ditches.

“I suggested to my teacher that the government should plan and build the drainage system for the City of London. The craftsmen have many ways to prevent collapses.”

Edward Snow said calmly.

But that suggestion was never made again.

Williams Jenner was powerless, and Edward Snow understood.

This time, there might be a chance.

“This is something we’ve already discussed,” Kingsley said. “Unfortunately, the famous one is Falcon Potts.”

Edward Snow glanced at Kingsley.

“We don’t care about any of that.” Ever since he returned and was told by his mentor about the existence of Florence Nightingale and a ‘voluntary’ detective—he knew this after spending a few hours with Kingsley.

They are the same kind of people.

Efficient people who prefer to take things in a straightforward manner.

“Actually, what I’m talking about is here,” Edward Snow rummaged on the table, found Kingsley’s pen, unscrewed it, and started dotting the rest of the colored areas of the drawing with the nib like rain: “It’s here, here, and the whole area here.”

Blue ink dots were scattered everywhere.

Whether brown or light yellow.

"Based on the time you provided—"

The detective interrupted: "It was me, along with Sheriff Dan Bucky and the rest of the officers—"

“That’s not important, Kingsley. Based on the information you provided, I’ve done a full count: the time it took for the people in these blue-marked areas to fall ill is similar to the time it took for the people in the red-marked areas to fall ill at the outbreak site.”

He raised his head.

Behind the glasses are a pair of quiet eyes.

"That's strange, isn't it?"

Florence was stunned.

She bent down and carefully examined Edward Snow's hand-drawn map: indeed, whether it was the red area symbolizing the 'earliest infection,' the brown area symbolizing the 'second most infected,' or even the light yellow area symbolizing the 'most recent infection,' every area had blue ink dots.

That is, the earliest infected persons who fell ill at the same time as those in the red zone.

This…

That's really strange.

"Maybe they work all over the place?" Florence tried to find out.

Kingsley shook his head: "I asked the sheriff to inquire about this—the workers' commuting routes are regular. This doesn't make sense."

He pointed to the map.

If infection occurs at work, the timing will not be nearly identical, and the area of ​​color spread will also change.

"Suppose there are one hundred people infected fifteen days ago in the light yellow area. Did these people all coincidentally hide away?"

Kingsley felt something was off as he spoke…

and many more.

He looked up abruptly, almost in unison with Edward Snow:

"The Ritual of Thunderstorms".

Bang.

The door was pushed open, and one side folded and slammed against the wall.

The doctor, who rushed in, cursed every famous person he could (including the Queen), rummaged through his closet and pulled out a creased leather bag, stuffing the documents and notebooks from his desk into it.

He also greeted the three of them.

“It’s almost time, Edward. Remember to bring the prescription you mentioned earlier… Oh, Mr. Kingsley, good afternoon. Miss Nightingale, good afternoon.” Edward Snow said he wouldn’t forget, and nodded to the middle-aged doctor.

The other party rushed out again and slammed the door shut.

Bang.

There was silence in the room.

The three of them stared blankly at the map.

…………

……

suburbs.

Temporary hospital.

In Kingsley's words, this crooked brick house was like a man rushing home to wipe his son's mouth halfway through his business: crooked in all sorts of ways, at all angles.

A plump, oily-smelling man was directing the workers on the construction site. In addition to a pocket watch in his left hand, he was also holding a lady's folding fan in his right hand.

When Edward Snow and his party arrived at the scene, they did not look too good.

"This is the house built for the patients?"

Kingsley glanced at the chubby man gesturing not far away: like all the fat men in London, he seemed to have a particular fondness for brightly colored clothes and intricate, jingling ornaments—he probably never had any doubts in his head, and until the 'mystery' about him disappeared, he wouldn't cause anyone who saw him to have any new doubts.

He fanned himself, muttering incoherent profanities, and scolded the workers for not moving fast enough.

"Vanity! Vanity! You insist on waiting for the big shots to arrive before you show off? Hurry up! Hurry up! You're lazier than my mule!"

He considered himself to be of imposing stature, and when Kingsley and his party passed by, he puffed out his chest, showing them his belly, which could hold half the food of Londoners, especially when he saw the well-dressed gentleman, Kingsley.

He thought he was some important person.

"Jeff Potts sends his regards, sir."

Kingsley made that conclusion at the time.

This is definitely not a scheming person.

“Good day, Mr. Potts. We are doctors from the Royal College of Physicians of Beatrice—excuse me, where is our office? Where is the ward for mild and severe cases?” Florence asked urgently, bypassing Edward Snow.

They don't have much time, and since the citizens are willing to trust them, they should repay that trust.

"where?"

Jeff Potts held a folding fan in his chubby hand, as if he had heard someone say, "Can you see my throat and lips?" He flicked the fan, the oily scent mixed with the perfume, which made Florence particularly uncomfortable as he got closer.

She still liked Kingsley's faint tobacco scent, his not-too-strong whiskey, and the faint, unpleasant smell of soap left on his clothes.

"Isn't it right here? My dear girl, isn't it right here? You have such beautiful eyes, how can you not see the miracle we built in an instant, a miracle created out of mercy?"

He was like a stage actor without an audience, honing his public persona in private, with exaggerated lines and movements—at least more exaggerated than on stage.

Mr. Potts deserved a happy and noticed childhood (after all, there are only two kinds of prophets in this world: either pregnant women or authors outside the story).
Seeing Jeff Potts like that, Florence felt like strangling him to death.

But she didn't say that.

Otherwise Kingsley would correct her, 'Can't do it.'

In short.

Under Mr. Potts's 'you should be ashamed' gaze, Kingsley forcibly dragged the still-arguing Florence and led the silent Edward Snow to the newly completed ward.

piece…

Brand new, yet not appearing brand new; intact, sturdy, yet not appearing intact or sturdy...

'New house'.

Who should be ashamed?
Florence was sulking.

She rubbed the coarse gravel on the ground with her soft shoes, just like herself more than ten years ago when she missed out on the doll in the shop window because of her father's deception.

(End of this chapter)