The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1026 Ch.1025 The Age of Heroes
This ward was built...

It was indeed not very 'satisfactory'—in Edward Snow's words.

He was always like that, never saying anything completely. Even if the patient was barely clinging to life, with their intestines spilling out of their navel, no legs, and vomiting up everything they ate or drank, and their wife still had a fishy smell in her mouth (that's another story)—even so, he would still pretend to diagnose for a few minutes and say something like, "Maybe there's still a chance."

This is how Kingsley used to see him.

Until he actually saved a patient whose knee was broken by a rock, and it looked like a person was growing out of the blood.

This is a capable person.

Like Florence, just like myself.

Kingsley respected capable people.

"It's better to stay in Betelgeuse."

Florence said it in anger.

She knew she couldn't stay in Bertram. If they really wanted to make a difference, to help the patients, they had to come here—with Falcon Potts's actions, patients in London would gradually be moved to the suburbs.

"The reality is that we can only control the part that we can control."

As Edward Snow spoke, he silently wiped the dust off the simple cabinet with his sleeve, put away his bag, and sorted out the medical supplies, prescriptions, and other necessary items, finding a place to put them.

Kingsley and Florence quickly joined in as well.

The afternoon didn't last long.

Williams Jenner then arrived.

They heard the old dean arguing with someone outside.

Who else could it be?

Jeff Potts.

Falcon Potts' younger brother, the most favored child in the family, a charming gentleman in his thirties who still tries his best to be as fragrant and oily as possible.

Williams Jenner couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Is this government funding?

A generous private donation from the Queen?

Help from all sectors of society?
It's just this one area...

A place worse than a latrine?
"Falcon Potts!!"

Several students helped the old dean through the pile of rocks, taking a risk.

Jeff Potts picked up a cup of black tea and sat in the awning the workers had just built for him. "Oh, you've come a long way. Should I call you Williams Jenner, or Old Jenner? Dean Jenner? Dean of the Royal College of Physicians?"

“You should take a look at your own brother, Mr. Potts. What kind of tricks are you playing?!”

He didn't want to speak rudely in front of the children (to the old dean, the students were all children, even someone like Edward Snow in his thirties), but what he was seeing was simply outrageous.

"A trick? You call the help from all sectors of society, the government, and the Queen a 'trick'?"

The old dean stormed into the pergola and knocked the teacup out of Potts' hand.

He was so angry he almost fainted.

"I can't let a patient stay in a place like this! By the grace of God! Can't you even build a proper roof?!"

"Actually, what you say doesn't count, Mr. Jenner." Potts put on a kind face, saying that he was soft-hearted and had secretly added some extra money. Otherwise, these people wouldn't even have a 'slightly inferior' title.

"Is this the Grey Party's answer?" Williams Jenner's face twitched.

He stared down at the fat man as if he were a lion about to devour him.

But the lion got old.

“Oh, brother, I'm not surprised you say that. Mr. Jenner, this has nothing to do with party affiliation—but if you insist on saying it does, then so be it. Who discovered the source of this disease? Who created the drug? You used your party affiliation to seize this title and position, but when disaster strikes, you contribute nothing at all…”

Old Jenner was trembling with anger.

The students around him criticized Jeff Potts, saying he was ill-mannered and shouldn't speak to a man who had dedicated decades to medical research and saving lives.

Jeff Potts didn't take it seriously.

"He never saved me."

He said.

"If you insist on fussing over such 'trivial' matters... you might as well hire workers yourself. We've spent every penny of the government's money where it's needed... Look at how much a bag of lime powder costs now? Mercury? Bricks? Wood? Workers' wages? With the plague raging, do you really think that two or three pence can... Oh dear! You can't even hire a child!" Utterly shameless.

The students raised their fists to punch him.

The workers, unusually, surrounded Jeff Potts and shielded him—and these workers were acting strangely too.

There are naturally students from poor families.

They grew up interacting with workers, prostitutes, and tanners.

The workers wouldn't do that.

Just look at their wrists.

"How dare you... how dare you..." Old Jenner clutched his chest, too angry to speak.

Florence ran out, lifting her skirt, grabbed her tutor's hand, and instructed the students to move him into the room and find him a bed to lie down on.

that's it.

This is the explanation given by the Grey Party and Falcon Potts in the face of disaster.

soon.

It wasn't until nightfall.

The citizens, who had arrived in droves on foot with their carriages, reached their shelter.

A sacred place amidst disaster.

Most of these people are infected with the disease or are family members of infected patients. Some of them are no longer human, having been transformed into a kind of soulless, empty shell during the disaster. Others, however, still retain their humanity.

So they insulted Florence, the government, the doctors and Beatrice, and called the caregivers unwanted prostitutes.

Florence wasn't angry at all.

She knew it wasn't her fault, and a patient venting their pain couldn't exactly curse the Father of All Things (at least not in public).

"We've helped repair some ceilings and patch up the walls. Quickly, separate by family and follow our instructions—"

Her 'lively' way of giving instructions left the rude citizens completely bewildered.

This woman…

what happened?

"How can we live here?! We don't even have a peaceful home like this!"

“Please, sir. Move in first, and tomorrow I’ll move a palace for you…” Florence was like a butterfly amidst gunfire, flitting across the battlefield of the plague.

Kingsley rolled up his sleeves and, together with Edward Snow, brought out buckets of government-sponsored "high-proof liquor": a layer of yellowish-brown impurities that made one frown.

There's no need to delve into what it is.

London at night.

In the remote West End of London, a place forever beyond the reach of ordinary people, a hail of good news nearly threw the ladies and gentlemen at the lavish banquet into a daze.

They do live in the West End, after all.

Praise be to the benefactor!

The gentlemen raised their glasses, and the ladies lowered their fans.

The band's artists played passionate and vibrant music with cold hearts.

Aristocratic boys in bow ties waved newspapers that smelled of fresh ink as they weaved through long skirts and perfume with their friends, shouting "We're saved!" and "Long live the Empire!" which drew indulgent laughter from their parents or other ladies.

The glass held more sentiment than all the fat present.

They collided and struck each other, issuing warnings, but humans did not understand the language of glass.

"Praise be to Your Majesty!"

they said.

"Oh dear—when I think about the sacrifices we've made for this disaster—oh dear—I—I just want to—"

The ladies used their rapier-like index fingers to pick up their handkerchiefs and wipe their eyes while sobbing.

"This is truly a great era...we have countless heroes..."

(End of this chapter)